


Spare Keys

by Evaleigh77



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-04-30 23:26:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 55,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14507760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evaleigh77/pseuds/Evaleigh77
Summary: A multi-year take on Tessa and Scott's fascinatingly weird and lovely relationship. Come for the angst and love scenes...stay for the Danny Moir cameos.





	1. Cliff-jumping

**Author's Note:**

> I watch figure skating once every four years. I've never read or written fan fiction before (not counting Rainbow Rowell's excellent "Fangirl," which you should start reading right this instant if you haven't). This is some kind of fresh hell I fell into on Feb. 20, year of our Lord 2018. I've written short stories for years, so...this shouldn't feel as weird as it does, but yeah. These two people are just endlessly effing fascinating to me. Weirdly, I don't care that much about whether they currently are or aren't...whatever it is they seem to be. The aspect of their history I just needed to write out is how completely confusing and complicated and messy their relationship must have been at points over 20 years. And how, unlike many of us who had "serious significant others" in our teen years and early twenties, they couldn't just simply disconnect or grow beyond each other. That potential mix of commitment, fierce loyalty, genuine love (likely romantic and platonic), occasional resentment and (alleged!) lust was just...too much. I'm sorry, not sorry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This feels like an abuse of my spare key,” she says, cocking an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything for what feels like a long time, just keeps looking at her, his eyes moving slowly between her face, the tops of her breasts peeking out of her rumpled tank top and his feet.

** Canton 2007 **

The weed smoke is so thick in the living room, Tessa thinks she may be getting second-hand high. She makes her way through the clusters of sweaty bodies grinding on the makeshift dance floor in the middle of an apartment living room. In the corner, she sees one of the new single skaters _(Victor? Vincent? What the hell is his name?_ ) dancing with Tanith, while T-Pain’s “Buy you a drank” blasts through someone’s iPod.  
  


She thinks she’s blocked the guy’s name from her brain because of the revolting way he’d adjusted his crotch while winking at her in the rink gym a few weeks back.  
  


As Tessa tries not to stare, Guy Whose Name Begins with V begins sliding his hand up the front of Tanith’s skirt. Tanith’s head lolls back on his shoulder, eyes closed and face flushed.  
  


Tessa’s stomach clenches in embarrassment. It also clenches in arousal, which honestly feels so fucking defeating.  
  


Eyes determinedly forward and legs a little squishy from the shots of cheap vodka earlier, she makes what’s becoming her patented move during these new weekly Dirty Thursday Dance Parties. She goes in search of the one extra drink that will tip the balance between the fun, silly drunk version of herself and the one who is just too much, full stop.  
  


_Self-awareness is still on point,_ she says to herself smugly. Their mental prep coach would be so proud.  
  


She rounds the corner into the kitchen, dimly wondering if she heard the blender earlier, and if that means Meryl is making Pink Panty Pulldowns (a never-ends-well concoction of cheap vodka and frozen pink lemonade concentrate).  
  


Scott is perched on the countertop, hands gripping the edge, his upper body leaning slightly forward. He’s laughing at something someone must have said before she walked in, and in that moment, she thinks he looks like every good-looking male lead in  
every cheesedick teen movie she’s ever seen.  
  


The slow beat of the song bumps along in the background, as Tessa slightly moves her shoulders and hips with the music, heading towards the blender and the stack of red plastic cups. She feels Scott’s eyes on her back as she pours the last of the icy slush into a cup.  
  


It’s hard to say what she’ll read on his face when she turns around. Amusement? Worry? Irritation? Reluctant lust? She’s experienced all four from him over the last few weeks. The first three are familiar to her. The last one makes her shake her ass a little more loosely to T-Pain.  
  


“If you share your Pink Panty with me,” he says, smirking and kicking his foot towards her, “I’ll let you play DJ for the first hour of the drive home tomorrow.”  
  


“Are you fucking kidding me?!” someone yells suddenly from the living room before Tessa can respond. “Who brought Twister?” The two college-aged guys in the kitchen with them stumble out, whooping loudly.  
  


Tessa smirks back at him. “You don’t want my Pink Panty…you want to play Twister. I can see it in your face.”  
  


He looks at her for a few seconds, chewing on the inside of his lip.  
  


“Come here.”  
  


“Why?” she asks, eyes narrowing.  
  


“Why are you so difficult? Just come here.”  
  


She shuffles towards him, stopping just short of where his knees are draped over the counter. He smells like Irish Spring soap, beer and cinnamon gum.  
  


_I want to climb him like a tree_ , she thinks without warning. And after a beat, _I’m so, so screwed._  
  


“Let me smell your breath,” he says, his mouth twitching at the corners.  
  


“Do you lay in bed at night and think of new ways to be weird?” Tessa asks seriously.  
  


Her hand tightens around her cup. She feels deflated for a split second because she thought this conversation was headed somewhere new. But, instead it’s taken a hard left into big brother-little sister town.  
  


“Have you at least stuck to one liquor?” he asks, needling her. “Tell me you didn’t mix your brown and clear booze again like that night when…”  
  


She flicks his knee cap hard. “I’ve stuck to vodka, thanks a whole bunch. And, as much as I enjoy reliving my drinking failures with you, I’m going to need you to zip it and remember who covered for you yesterday when you were late.”  
  


He’d shown up to the rink 20 minutes behind schedule, out of breath and slightly sweaty. He’d also been sporting fingernail scratches on the back of his neck. His blasé attitude during the entirety of the practice made her feel distinctly 13 years old.  
  


(During that practice, she had also worked her way down her new checklist of passive-aggressive behaviors that now seemed to appear when Scott had been with (or was planning to be with) his latest girlfriend. These included avoiding eye contact when possible, pretending to text furiously on her phone during water breaks and laughing with her face and not her eyes at his jokes. As they’re skating to the boards an hour in for a breather, he had asked her if she was upset about something. She patted his shoulder without really looking and told him she was just in the zone. The fact that he doesn’t seem to understand that she’s punishing him (or more to the point, _why_ she’s punishing him) was maybe the most humiliating part of the whole pathetic cycle.)  
  


“You know I’d cover for you too, whenever you needed,” Scott says, smiling and tilting his head slightly. “But, seriously. Since I’m driving you home in my truck tonight, I’m going to need proof you’ve stuck to our one-liquor rule. Your track record there is tragic. So, come here, and let me smell your breath, alright?”  
  


Something about the way he says it, the way he’s looking at her – it makes her want to do really stupid things. Things that both sets of their parents, every one of their coaches since she was in grade 7 and the full retinue of their combined 28 siblings have all made abundantly clear are Not Worth The Risk™. (The most vocal among this set is Danny, Scott’s brother, who sat them down when they were 14 and 16 in Scott’s parents’ game room and told them with a completely straight face that, “Touching each other where you pee will literally ruin every-fucking-thing, and I’m gonna give you three reasons why.” Scott and Tessa had sat there mutely during this lecture, trying not to simultaneously die of awkwardness and/or laugh uncontrollably.)  
  


In the crappy light of the kitchen, Tessa watches as Scott’s eyes repeatedly dart to her mouth, waiting for her to give in. She takes a big mouthful of Pink Panty Pulldown and swallows, keeping her gaze on his.  
  


She slowly leans in until she’s a few inches from his mouth, and blows warm air out slowly, directing her breath towards his lips. She hovers there for a few seconds, feeling his indecision and her stupid, embarrassing hope collide in the space between them.  
  


“See? Just vodka, like I said,” she says to smooth out the moment. “I always tell you the truth.” Tessa is concentrating on looking at a spot slightly over his left ear. She smiles again in his direction, takes another long pull of her drink and turns to leave.  
  


She’s almost through the doorway when he says, “You know that I know that’s bullshit, right?” He says it quietly, almost rhetorically.  
  


She pretends she doesn’t hear him, and he doesn’t follow her.  
  


The Twister game is in full force in the living room. Apparently, someone had the bright idea to up the ante, and Tessa realizes a beat too slow that the game has morphed into strip Twister.  
  


“Virtue…get your sweet ass over here and play,” slurs Fedor, Marina’s son and the resident heartbreaker of the rink. Fedor was her first real kiss, the first guy she slept with and truthfully, her first friend outside of Scott in Canton. It would be really, really easy to join the game and let him take her home and to his bed. If she thought he would listen to what she wanted while in that bed, she might consider it. But, she knows better. Fedor is about Fedor. And, he thinks foreplay is boring.  
  


_Hard pass_ , she thinks. _I’m a fucking mess, but not that big of a fucking mess_.  
  


She winks at Fedor anyway to piss off Meryl, and spotting her purse shoved behind the recliner, grabs it and walks out the door. She’s not sure where she’s going, but she’s not playing strip Twister, and she’s sure as hell not playing mental Twister with Scott in his too-small truck cab.  
  


In the parking lot, she sees Charlie standing by his car, packing a can of snuff against his palm and then pinching a dip into his lip. The weed, booze and various forms of nicotine were the open dirty secrets of a lot of the skaters in Canton. The high pressure to perform and stay thin were such a bitch. Case in point – a few weeks ago, Marina had “joked” about taking a marker and circling all of Tessa’s “jiggles” on her stomach and thighs if she didn’t stick to her training diet.  
  


“Are you sober enough to give me a ride home?” she asks, moving towards the passenger side of his Honda.  
  


“Yeah, no problem,” Charlie says, smiling sheepishly around his dip. “Sorry about this…just do me a solid and keep it quiet around Meryl. She kept texting me WebMD photos of lip cancer and photo shopped pictures of my face with half of my mouth missing, so I told her I quit.” Tessa snorts.  
  


The ride home is quiet. She dozes until she feels the car slowing into her apartment complex parking lot.  
  


“We’re here,” Charlie says, gently nudging her shoulder.  
  


“Mmmhmm,” mutters Tessa sleepily. “Thanks for the ride.” She pats his hand clumsily and climbs out of the car, trudging up the stairs to her second-floor unit and digging her keys out of her purse. She unexpectedly remembers a conversation between her and Scott when they first moved to Michigan and began living on their own.  
  


_“You need to walk to your apartment with your keys in your hand, T. Hold your key between your pointer and middle fingers so you can…”_  
  


_“Yeah, yeah. Shank someone in the eye if they come at me.” Tessa had rolled her eyes, as if bored with his worrying. But she secretly felt a swoop of warmth in her chest at how earnest he was about it all._  
  


_“Or the balls, Tess. Ball shanking is an underrated move, I think.”_  
  


Tessa slips the key between her fingers into position as she climbs the stairs. All of a sudden, she feels so tired. And ridiculously lonely. She unlocks both locks on the front door and then locks them back behind her.  
  


She washes her face and brushes her teeth, examining her reflection in the mirror. It won’t always feel this way, she remembers her sister telling her a few months ago. After a couple of glasses of red wine, she had admitted she was afraid of how she felt sometimes around Scott – how she’d felt since she was 15, if she was really telling the truth.  
  


Climbing into bed, she leans over, plugs in her phone and dutifully sets her alarm. She closes her eyes and falls into the kind of heavy sleep only cheap liquor can give.  
  


Tessa doesn’t know what time it is when she hears someone (something?) moving by her bed. She sits bolt upright and draws in a deep breath to scream.

“Oh God, no, T…it’s just me!” Scott whisper-yells, reaching out his hand to touch her shoulder. “It’s just me,” he repeats again in what he probably thinks is a more soothing tone of voice.  
  


“What’s wrong?” she mumbles incoherently. “Are you sick? Or drunk?” She pauses for a second, feeling more awake. “Or both?”  
  


She flicks on her bedside lamp, washing the room in soft yellow light. She blinks up at him, sees him standing there awkwardly, holding her spare key on his keyring, shifting his weight from foot to foot. In the ways that count, he looks the same as when she first met him at 9 years old – sweet but also like he knows he’s slightly full of shit and pleased about it.  
  


“This feels like an abuse of my spare key,” she says, cocking an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything for what feels like a long time, just keeps looking at her, his eyes moving slowly between her face, the tops of her breasts peeking out of her rumpled tank top and his feet.  
  


She feels the air between them solidify – like in the kitchen, except thicker this time.  
  


_Fuck this,_ she thinks suddenly. _I’m not going first._  
  


Without a word, she reaches over and flips the lamp off, returning the room to complete darkness. She doesn’t hear him move at first. But then comes the sound of his jacket hitting the floor and his shoes and keys thumping against the leg of her desk.  
  


He climbs on the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard, knees pulled up. She feels his hand moving on top of the covers, looking for hers.  
  


“I’m not sure what to do, Tess,” he says finally, his voice so quiet in the dark. “You get that I don’t know what the fuck to do here, yeah?”  
  


She doesn’t say anything, just stares at the ceiling and tries not to have a panic attack.  
  


He turns to look at her in the dark. “This feels like I’m holding a gas can over a blowtorch and hoping for the best.”  
  


Tessa lifts her arm from under the covers and slides her palm on top of his hand, lacing her fingers through his. She doesn’t speak for a minute, just squeezes his hand and scoots up so she’s sitting shoulder to shoulder with him. Slowly, as if she’s a wild animal he’s trying not to startle, he moves his hand from under hers and pulls her gently until she gets the hint and moves to sit between his legs, leaning so that her back is resting on his chest.  
  


_This is the way you hold someone when you have feelings for them_ , she thinks.  
  


Scott lowers his face until his cheek is next to hers. She feels him turn slightly and inhale in the spot where her ear and neck meet and mutter, almost resentfully, “Why is your smell like crack to me?”  
  


Something inside of Tessa’s gut just snaps.  
  


She shifts up and pulls her tank top over her head. Then, without turning to look at Scott, she lifts her hips and pulls her pajama shorts off in one fluid motion. She can hear his breath catch, as he realizes what’s happening.  
  


“I don’t want to overanalyze this moment, Scott.” Jesus, her voice sounds like sex – rough and throaty. She feels halfway proud, halfway self-conscious. “I just want to…do.”  
  


“You want to do…what?” he asks, not teasing or coy, but quiet and serious. He leans his face back in, moving his parted lips up and down her neck, not kissing her exactly, but not…not kissing?  
  


She formulates several answers and discards them one by one. In the end, she just says, heartbeat thundering in her ears, “I want to do everything with you.”  
  


Later on, months (really, years) after this night, she will realize that this is the biggest understatement she’ll ever utter out loud in her life. Forever and ever amen. The end.  
  


He turns her face with his hands and looks at her for a few seconds. Then their mouths meet – all soft lips and light teeth until she begins to lick into him because she feels like her head might explode from the want.  
  


He spins her around so that they’re facing each other now, chest to chest, her legs wrapped around his hips as he pushes against her. _It’s just not enough_ , she thinks desperately.  
  


Without really hesitating, she breaks away from him and lays back on the bed, knees bent and open so that she’s bare in front of him.  
  


“God, Tess,” he says, his voice raspy, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “Just…God.”  
  


Later, as his head moves rhythmically between her legs, his hands reaching up to pinch her nipples, she thinks that this might be the most erotic moment of her entire life. She holds both of her palms to the sides of his head and watches in a haze as her hips ride his mouth. He mutters curse words while she comes all around him, his tongue and lips working her through the high. Heart still hammering, her head swimming, he firmly flips her over flat on her stomach, his hands palming her ass and parting her in the best and dirtiest way possible.  
  


_This is what sexually peaking at 19 feels like_ , she thinks dazedly.  
  


He stills behind her. “Is this ok, T? Do you want to stop here?”  
  


She thinks her teeth are chattering even though she isn’t cold.  
  


“Do _you_ want to stop?” she asks, while chanting in her head, _please say no, please say no, please say no._  
  


“I just want to do what you want…and only what you want.” And then, after a pause, “Whatever that is.” And she suddenly realizes that maybe he’s no longer just talking about sex.  
  


“I want you inside me,” she whispers, face burning, half buried in the wadded blankets. “I’m clean and on the pill,” she adds quickly. Her right arm reaches back to touch his thigh as he kneels behind her. “Please, Scott.” Her voice shakes a little.  
  


He answers by leaning forward and running his pointer and middle finger along the crease of her mouth gently a few times before pushing them inside. She laps her tongue over both, sucking and bobbing on his fingers until she feels his legs trembling where they’re pressed against the inside of her calves.  
  


She looks back as he takes his glistening fingers and pushes them gently inside her, slowly working in and out of her with a rhythm that just feels mean-spirited in its teasing. He leans down, while she watches over her shoulder, and gives her one slow deep lick along her opening, before lifting her hips slightly and thrusting inside.  
  


As it turns out, one of Tessa’s secret assumptions about Scott is absolutely correct. He fucks like he dances, rather than like he skates. He’s precision, deep edges and flawless blade control in skates. But his dancing is raw, loose and instinctual. That’s what tonight feels like to her. He knows how to make her feel good instinctually. And as she thinks this, she realizes that she, like him, is no longer just talking about sex.  
  


As he moves again and again inside her, driving her hips into the bed at an angle, he reaches down and begins to rub small circles above the cleft of her ass. His fingers slip slide in the crease, a few beads of sweat rolling down him and onto her.  
  


She pulls her knees up so that she’s on all fours and slips her hand between her legs, rubbing while he continues his pace. He grits out, “I want you to come again, Tess.”  
  


He drives into her, and she drops her head and cries out, devoutly glad that the unit next to her bedroom is unrented at the moment.  
  


When she reaches back and cups him underneath, rolling him gently in her palm, he moans something unintelligible (later, Tessa thinks it sounded like “you’re perfect” but talks herself out of it) and then thrusts one last time. He drapes himself over her back, his cheek resting between her shoulder blades, and gently rubs his nose against her, making her ache in the best and worst way.  
  


He peppers soft kisses there, before joking that he’s probably crushing her to death and flopping on his back next to her.  
  


They lay quietly, listening to the sounds of the highway in the distance and the whir of the heater as it kicks on. He swings around so that his head is resting on her lower back as he looks at the ceiling.  
  


“I want to say a million things right now,” he says after a while. She’s felt him start three or four sentences before letting his breath out slowly each time. “But everything sounds like not enough and too much in my head.” He laughs quietly, reaching up to brush her sweaty hair off her face.  
  


“I know what you mean,” she says. But she thinks, _I love you. I’m terrified of you. I’ve hated every one of your girlfriends._ She thinks these thoughts in that precise order.  
  


Before she can second guess herself, she steels herself to say what she must – words to help fuel the self-preservation she’s going need to move past the fact that they have now touched each other where they pee, and it was fucking fantastic.  
  


Because the truth is – she’s 18 and he’s 19, and what does she expect this could mean really at this point?  
  


This is how Tessa is different than her friends back home. She is ruthlessly practical, disciplined and almost unhealthily goal-oriented. Later she will realize that these qualities, in combination with drilling romantic intimacy with Scott on ice every day since the age of 7, makes for a deeply ( _deeply_ ) fucked up situation.  
  


“Ok,” she says starting again, forcing her voice to be light. “No analysis, yeah? Let’s sleep, and I’ll set my alarm for 15 minutes earlier so we can grab coffee on the way to the rink.”  
  


Scott sits completely still for a few seconds, his expression in profile unreadable. When she realizes his face is methodically closing off, she feels like someone is slowly squeezing a vise around her chest. She’s never watched someone she loves compartmentalize hurt in real time – it makes her feel sick.  
  


Before she can say something to try and undo the last 30 seconds, he sits up, and smiles at her with his face and not his eyes. He leans forward and pats her leg in a way that seems like Morse code for, _I have a girlfriend anyway._  
  


“I’m going to try and catch a few hours in my own bed,” he says, rolling off smoothly and grabbing his jeans off the floor. “I’ll be here 15 minutes early though, no worries – coffee is going to be essential.”  
  


They put the rest of their clothes back on more slowly than they ought to, though, each of them stealing furtive glances at the other, like they’re both trying to commit everything to memory. He says goodbye two or three more times using different words before she hears the front door close and the sound of the locks clicking back into place with his spare key.  
  


Tessa lays back down and rolls into the middle of the bed on her back, pushing her arms and legs out like a snow angel, just trying to be – to not think. Sticky wetness seeps from the sheet onto her tank top, and she reaches back to touch it, twisting and lifting the fabric to her nose. The tangy, salty scent is recognizable instantly. Her gut twists.  
  


And then she starts to laugh. (And let’s be honest – she cries too. And not gentle crying. Ugly-ass crying. Headache in the morning, eyes of death crying.) Literally, and metaphorically, she’s landed smack dab in the middle of the wet spot.  
  



	2. 31 days later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the story of what happens 31 days after jumping off a cliff...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry we can't have nice things, like truly happy endings to my stories. But! What if I promised you at least one (mostly) happy ending? It's not coming until the final chapter, but delayed gratification is a lost art after all.
> 
> This chapter wasn't planned...instead I was going to jump right into a piece set in 2013 at the completely ridiculous bridal photo shoot. But, I had an idea that wouldn't quit, so here we are. I do promise you that this one has lots of sweet moments...and some heat (WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME). As I mentioned in my chapter one notes, I'm new to FF, so posting a story about real live people on the world wide web still feels a little weird. But, i just want to say, wherever you are, Tessa and Scott, (and whatever you are), I hope you're living your best lives. Because your strange, amazing journey is just a marvel and maybe the most fun thing to write ever. (If you stumble upon this, though, help me help you by averting your eyes from about 2,000 words on. You're welcome.) 
> 
> To all of you in this little fandom: I beta'd myself again (argh), so be gentle. Your comments and feedback to chapter one were so helpful, and so encouraging...so please follow up with me, if you feel the spirit move you.

Three small bags filled with predictably healthy snacks are balanced on Tessa’s lap, her legs crossed under her like a graceful pretzel. On that tired stretch of road from home to Canton, she’s spent the first 20 minutes of their trip meticulously eating one (and only one) item at a time from each snack bag, moving to the next bag when (and only when) she’s completely swallowed the previous bite. From what Scott can tell, she works in a drink from her water thermos every fourth bite or so.  
  


He looks over at her again, as she dog-ears a page in her magazine, and pops a single almond in her mouth, chewing with surgical precision.  
  


It’s annoying as hell.  
  


(But also strangely cute, if he’s being totally honest).  
  


“ _Teeeesssss_.”  
  


She looks up, expression friendly but guarded. This has been her perpetual resting face since they jumped off a cliff 31 days ago (but who’s counting?) and slept together. Her neutral carefulness hurts way more than her anger or disappointment ever could – he’s certain of that.  
  


“Just out of curiosity…and I’m spit-balling here, Tess,” he says, turning his eyes back to the road. “But, what if you just said ‘fuck it all’ and ate three apple slices in a row? Or just pounded that entire bag of almonds at once?”  
  


He thinks he sounds mostly good-natured and only a little bit irritated when he says it, which is something.  
  


Tessa’s head tilts, considering him for a minute.  
  


“Do these questions come from a place of frustration,” she asks, perfectly mimicking their performance counselor’s weird yet soothing voice, “because I haven’t offered to share with you?”  
  


She begins to laugh almost reflexively at herself, just like she does every time she manages to land a joke successfully. It’s one of his favorite things about her.  
  


_Yes_ , he says in silent response to her question. _That’s exactly how I feel, actually._  
  


But, she made it clear 31 days ago that sharing is off the table, so he just gives her a small smile in return, and turns up the radio.  
  


_Getting over the best sex of my life with my best friend and business partner is going really well_ , he thinks tiredly. _Really crushing this shit dead, Moir._  
  


_***************************************************_  
  


An hour later, Scott sees her rummaging in her tote bag like she’s looking for something. Unusually, her hair is down today, wavy and wild like she just shook it out of a loose bun, which, Scott knows (because he knows everything about her travel habits) is her normal go-to hair for a road trip.  
  


He watches her out of the corner of his eye as she finally gives up her search, twisting her hair into a knot and then leaning back to try and trap it against her headrest.     
  


Reaching sideways with one eye still on the road, Scott opens the center console between them. He pats around for a minute, before he feels her plain black hair band, which he found in his truck two weeks ago.  
  


Wordlessly, he holds it out to her, keeping his eyes forward. He feels her fingers touch his hand as she takes it from him, with a murmured ‘thanks.’  
  


When he sneaks a glance at her a few minutes later, her hair is piled messily on her head, and she’s watching him, almost like she’s been waiting for him to notice her. They stare at each other for a split second, and then she smiles.  
  


_***************************************************_  
  


With a little less than an hour to go, and bored with listening to his usual playlists, Scott chances another look at her. She’s sitting with her knees drawn up, her book propped up on her lap, the cover facing him.  
  


Recognizing it as the last of the Harry Potter series, he remembers suddenly how she had waited at the book’s midnight release and then stayed up all night to finish it. His mind flashes back to the sound of her voice, scratchy and low at 4 a.m., waking him out of a dead sleep because she just needed to tell someone that Harry didn’t die. (Ok, so apparently he sort-of died…but because he _chose_ to die, he lived? It’s all a little murky still to Scott).  
  


As she tried to describe the last few chapters to him, she’d surprised them both by starting to cry, something she rarely did, even more rarely in front of him.  
  


“Do you need me to come over?” he’d asked, sitting up and glancing around for his pants in the dark.  
  


“No, no, I’m ok,” she’d whispered, hiccupping slightly, blowing her nose away from the phone.  
  


When her breathing had begun to even out, he’d asked quietly, “It was the ending you wanted, though, right?” just to be sure he understood.  
  


“Yeah,” she’d said, her voice so sweet and young that he’d felt a pain in his chest he didn’t really understand. “It was a sad, happy ending.”  
  


_***************************************************_  
  


They’re ten minutes from their shared apartment complex, when Tessa finally surfaces from behind her book. Stretching her arms up like a cat, her shirt rides up to expose a sliver of pale, muscular stomach. She shakes her hair out of her bun, and Scott’s nose fills with the scent of her shampoo.  
  


_I just want to hold her and kiss her and fuck her_ , he thinks miserably, the inevitability of it all just gnawing him alive. _God, I’m such an asshole._  
  


And, how does he know for sure he’s an asshole? That answer can currently be found somewhere in a string of 27 unread texts from a different girl than the one in his passenger seat – the only girl he had any business holding, kissing or fucking. Three weeks ago, he’d told that girl he needed to focus on training – that skating was the reason he needed space.  
  


As it turns out, he isn’t always the guy his mother raised him to be.   
  


“I don’t want to go home yet,” Tessa announces, now moving to stretch her neck and then her legs.  
  


“You want to get coffee?” he asks her, changing lanes and then braking to a stop at the light. He pulls his baseball hat off the dash, slipping it on his head backwards.  
  


She turns to look out her window, and he watches her reflection closely in the glass.  
  


“Coffee for sure. And then Heritage Park.”  
  


_***************************************************_  
  


It’s dusk when they pull in behind a stand of trees off of one of the park’s many running paths, and climb out to sit on the tailgate. Hips pressed together slightly, knees and arms bumping every now and then, they drink their coffees in easy silence for the first few minutes.  
  


Finally, Scott thinks, it doesn’t feel like they’re being crushed to death by all the shit they left unsaid four weeks ago. And he knows, without really knowing _how_ he knows, that this shift means Tessa is gearing up to talk.  
  


He’s clear on one other thing, too – he’s letting her lead. The last time he attempted the conversation he’s pretty sure is coming, it resulted in 31 days of awkward hell.  
  


Holding her coffee cup with both hands, Tessa blows gently into the lip of the plastic lid.  
  


Keeping her eyes on her cup, she says quietly and without preamble, “Do you regret what happened?”  
  


He turns to look at her before answering, and waits for her to look at him, too.  
  


When she doesn’t, he says, “Tess, please look at me.”  
  


She shifts her body, so that she’s angled toward him and lifts her eyes to his.  
  


“I don’t regret anything,” he says clearly but in the same quiet tone. “The only thing I regret is that I think what happened made you sad or scared, or…” his voice trails away as he searches for the right word.  
  


She doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at him, eyes bright and a little glassy, coffee cup clutched like a life preserver in her hand.  
  


He waits, giving her time to process what he’s said. She’s always been so private about this aspect of her life. He doesn’t want to rush her or fill up the void with words he hasn’t made damn sure are the right ones.  
  


“I think,” she says, setting her cup down and reaching for his hand, “that in the moment, I thought what happened was just too big for us – for where we are right now.” She pauses, and looks out at the trees. “And, maybe just too big for where we want to end up.” She looks at him again. “Does that make sense?”  
  


He rubs his thumb along her knuckles, following the webbing in between each finger and then flips her hand over to touch her palm.  
  


“It does make sense,” he says, lifting the underside of her hand to his mouth, kissing her there before running his lips across the inside of her wrist. She watches him closely, and then looks back to the trees. Her chin wobbles slightly, and his heart lurches.  
  


“I won’t ever push you, Tess. You know that, right?” He wants to be absolutely clear on this point. “I won’t ever try and…“ He struggles again for the right words. “…hold this over you, or tell you how you should feel about it – no matter what.”  
  


Scott takes a deep a breath, dreading but knowing exactly what needs to come next.  
  


“And if you want, if it’s what you need, we can go back to how it was before,” he finishes, his stomach falling like he’s riding the shittiest, most unwelcomed rollercoaster in existence.  
  


Until he can find some way to properly un-fuck his feelings, he knows going back will feel like he’s giving himself an appendectomy every time he has to touch her. But, if that’s what she needs to fix this mess, he’ll do it.    
  


Turning to fully face him, she draws her legs up and sits cross-legged, her hand still holding his in the falling darkness.  
  


“For me, that’s the problem, though,” she says, and her voice cracks a little. “Maybe you can go back to the way it was before, but I don’t think I can.”  
  


It’s like a gong is reverberating in his brain.  
  


Her eyes are fastened on his, watching him for…what? He has absolutely no idea how to react to that. What is she saying exactly? He sits there mutely, his mind racing from one interpretation to another as her last sentence repeats in a loop.  
  


 “Uggghhhhhhhh,” she groans, flopping forward and resting her forehead on the tailgate. She blows out a long, shaky breath, before trying to start again.  
  


“It’s just…I can’t…not remember everything that happened that night,” she says, her face still pressed to the bed of the truck, her voice muffled.  
  


She sits up then, and breathes out slowly. Her eyes meet his.  
  


“I _want_ to remember,” she says, her chin quivering again. “I’m sorry, but I just do.”  
  


Her expression looks like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop – for him to disentangle himself from this conversation, to tactfully tell her that wanting to remember is the worst idea in the history of ideas.  
  


And here’s the thing – it actually _could be_ the worst idea in the history of ideas. Scott’s had 31 days to fully consider how this one night has created the deepest rift in the history of their partnership to this point. For better or for worse, he knows now that synchronicity with Tessa off-ice can’t be separated from synchronicity with Tessa on it.  
  


He knows all of that.  
  


And he kisses her anyway.

 

_***************************************************_  
  


She freezes for a moment, as if he’s caught her off-guard, their teeth bumping together slightly. Then, she makes this needy, plaintive noise that makes every hair on his arms stand up, and his mind just empties, like water flowing down a sink drain.  
  


Cupping his face with both hands, she kisses him like she’s starving. Sucking on his bottom lip and then trailing kisses along his jaw, she stops to softly nip at his earlobe, before returning to his mouth.  
  


They make out like that for a while, mouths and hands moving relentlessly, like this may never happen again (and truthfully, Scott’s scared it may not. What he doesn’t know is he’ll wrestle with this same fear over and over again long after this night is over).  
  


He reaches for her, wraps his hands around her waist and pulls once, letting her know where he wants her, but not pulling hard enough to move her himself. If this goes farther, he wants her to understand it’s on her terms.  
  


_(But please, please, please, please let it go farther_ , he thinks desperately.)  
  


Without hesitation, she straddles his lap and flicks his baseball hat off into the bed of the truck. Lifting her hair and moving it to one shoulder, he turns his face to her exposed neck and sucks softly near her pulse point, kissing and nipping his way along her collarbone. All he can think about is that she smells like home and happiness and the best sex he wants to have again and again.   
  


She begins grinding on him with focused determination – like it’s her fucking patriotic duty to make them both come in their pants. Working her hands under his shirt, her fingernails scratch lightly down his stomach until she dips her hand inside the top of his sweat pants, teasing him.  
  


“Shit, Tess,” he grunts, his hips jerking toward her touch. He’s so hard it hurts.  
  


“I want this off,” she says, pulling up the bottom of his shirt and trying to yank it over his head. He laughs a little at how impatient she is, the small noise of frustration she makes when an armhole gets stuck on his elbow.  
  


One cup of her pale blue bra exposed, her shirt slips off one shoulder. She arches up, pushing her breast towards him, as if she has to be touched right this very second.  
  


He cups it, dragging his thumb across her nipple and then pinching it lightly over her bra. Pushing her bra down, he licks and kisses each breast one at a time and gently runs his lips and teeth across both nipples, deliberately not sucking like he can tell she wants him to.  
  


“Scott.” Her voice is thick and rough. “Please.”  
  


“What do you need, Tess?” he asks, rubbing his cheek against her and licking a circle around one nipple with the flat of his tongue.  
  


“Will you please…” she gasps and stops, as he begins to blow gently on the other.  
  


“Please what?” he says, lifting his hips slightly and pushing the hard ridge of his sweat pants against her.  
  


“Please just suck them,” she grits out.  
  


He makes a noise deep in his throat halfway between a grunt and a moan, and lowers his mouth to her again, taking one and then the other nipple into his mouth and sucking her with long rhythmic pulls.  
  


“Oh my God,” she says in a frantic whisper. “I’m going to come.”  
  


He just keeps sucking her, using one hand to pinch and pull on her other breast in an almost lewd way.  
  


“In your truck, Scott,” she pants finally, jerking herself away and pulling up her bra. “Now.”  
  


Of course, because she’s her and he’s him, and they’re polite Canadians even when dry fucking each other in a public park, she also asks, “If that’s what you want to do, too?”  
  


“Yeah,” he says, lifting her off the tailgate. “I do.”  
  


She scrambles into the backseat of the cab, pulling him in with her and shucking her shirt and bra in one move.  
  


“Are you sure you want to do this here?” he asks, looking around and praying all of the families and joggers have called it a night.  
  


“I can’t wait,” Tessa says through clenched teeth, peeling her yoga pants and lace thong down her body ( _Christ on a cracker_ , Scott thinks, watching her panties slither onto his floorboard.) “I may die if we have to drive home.”  
  


“I don’t want you to die,” he says, his breath catching as she throws one leg over him.  
  


And before Scott really knows what’s happening, she’s pulled the front of his pants down and is holding him in her hand, thumb rubbing lazily back and forth across the wetness seeping from him. She jacks him slowly at first, gathering his pre-come on her way up and then sliding smoothly back down, until she’s moving firmly and quickly. It feels so damn good his eyes close involuntarily, and he has to touch her arm, telling her silently to stop before it’s too late.  
  


Keeping her eyes on his, she lets go, and then places two of her fingers in her mouth and sucks them. She reaches back down, and just as he thinks she’s about to tease him again, she surprises him by rubbing her wet fingers between her own legs, letting him watch her touch herself for a few seconds before pushing her fingers inside.  
  


His head thuds back on the headrest of the seat, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.  
  


_And that’s that,_ he thinks with a sureness that terrifies the shit out of him. _I’m now completely ruined for anyone else._  
  


He feels her hips lift, and then he’s all the way inside her, completely surrounded by tight wet heat, and it feels so good he wants to cry. Her hips move gently from side to side for second, wiggling until he’s as deep as he can go. They sit like this for a minute, foreheads together, mouths breathing each other in.  
  


Then she leans back slightly and smiles crookedly at him.  
  


_I love you. You’re the only girl who’s ever mattered. I’m scared we’re going to fuck this up_ , he thinks.  
  


He runs his thumb across her cheek and says instead, voice raspy, “Be with me, Tess,” before moving to close the gap and crush his mouth to hers.    
  


She rides him the same way she does most everything else in life – with steady, focused purpose. He concentrates on keeping his eyes open, on trying to memorize every minute like each is an element of choreography – the different angles of her face in the moonlight, the way her eyelashes flutter as her head falls back, the drop of sweat rolling down between her breasts into her navel. Moment by moment, he assembles a scrapbook of her like this because he’s never, ever seen anything so beautiful.  
  


Even though they’ve only done this once before, he knows instinctively when she’s close. Grabbing her hips firmly, splayed fingers digging into the soft flesh there, he begins to thrust up as she comes down, pushing and pulling her closer the edge.  
  


As they come together, she whispers his name like a prayer and buries her face into his shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. In the darkness of his truck, they hold onto each other like that for a long time, his hand rubbing circles on her back like he’s soothing a child.  
  


_***************************************************_

  
When he drops her off an hour later, she leans her hip against her front door, the dim light of the hallway casting shadows all around her.  
  


“Tomorrow?” she asks, smiling at him shyly and biting the inside of her lip.  
  


“And the one after that,” he answers, leaning in to kiss her cheek.  
  


_***************************************************_

  
Neither of them could ever have imagined how wrong it will all go a few months later, when Tessa’s legs turn traitor against her, leaving open incisions and a broken heart.  In the weeks that follow her surgery, Scott turns traitor against her too, his betrayal in the form of complete radio silence.  
  


For twelve weeks, they don’t speak – they don’t even text. He knows what kind of person this makes him – what kind of friend and partner.  
  


Now, with her first day of post-surgery practice in the books, they stand on her same familiar doorstep. She takes her skate bag from him silently, rifling through it for her keys before placing it on the ground.    
  


As she slides the key into the lock, he can feel her disappointment and anger expanding between them like a giant, inpenetrable wall, so palpable and solid it actually seems to occupy space in the small landing.  
  


_Still,_ he thinks stubbornly, _I have to try. I have to keep fucking trying._  
  


“Alright, kiddo,” he says, forcing his voice to be breezy and light, “So…tomorrow, yeah?”  
  


Tessa picks up her bag and turns to limp inside.  
  


“Tomorrow,” she echoes without looking at him, and shuts the door with a quiet click.  
  


Just on the other side, he could swear he hears her say, her voice like a ghost, “And the one after that.”


	3. Something Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One (almost) perfect day in 2013 (or...what happens during and after the 2013 bridal shoot).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, as happy as I am with the first two chapters, they hurt so good. With this one, I always envisioned something a little bit sweeter. There’s still angst (THERE WILL ALWAYS BE ANGST). But, I wanted to write something fun and sexy...a celebration of one (almost) perfect day. Please don’t read the last 1000 words at work unless your workplace is far more progressive than mine. 
> 
> A couple of notes to start out. First, I took some liberties and made some educated guesses with timelines. Second, there is a club in Toronto called Wildflower, but I don’t think it was open in 2013…so work with me there. Third, I have no idea if Scott actually likes and listens to Eli Young Band, but by God, he should. (Listen to “Crazy Girl” and “Even if it breaks your heart” right now if you never have.) Also, can you write something about a Toronto nightclub and not reference Drake? #Champagnepapiforever
> 
> Finally, please let me know your thoughts on this one. Hopefully, you like it as much as I do. Last and final chapter coming soon...assuming y'all still want to read something set after the comeback?

_Mid-2012  
Canton, Michigan – Tessa’s kitchen  
  
_

“Bottom line – people need to believe you want to fuck.”  
  


Over the tinny speaker of Tessa’s cell phone, which sits in the middle of her kitchen table on speaker between her and Scott, she can hear the distant sounds of honking and street noise filter in over the line.  
  


Annemarie, the media relations consultant they’d hired at the beginning of the year, never actually seemed to be in her office during their monthly teleconferences.  
  


“Look, I know I’m being blunt. But, you both should know this is where we’re headed from a messaging perspective. ”  
  


Tessa looks at Scott, who is staring at the phone, his mouth in grim line. Sweat from his glass runs down in small rivulets, forming a ring on her small wooden table. The coaster she slid him a few minutes ago sits three inches from his cup, unused and unnoticed, which feels like some sort of multi-layered metaphor for the current state of their relationship.  
  


“You want to message that we’re undercover fucking,” he says, his response not quite a question, but not quite a statement either.  
  


“No,” Annemarie’s voice is calm and professional. “I want to create the perception that you _want_ to undercover fuck. There’s a critical distinction there.”  
  


“Think about it dispassionately,” she continues, as if she can see Scott slouching in his seat, rolling his eyes. “Everything about Vancouver was sweet, naïve first love – two good-looking, baby-faced Canadian kids hold hands and dance their way to their dreams. That storyline isn’t viable any longer because the game has changed. You’re now the front-runners. You’re older. And, your narrative must evolve to best serve your position.”  
  


A loud, heavy quiet fills the kitchen. Annemarie presses on, seeming to interpret their silence as thoughtful, rather than mutinous. (Tessa is actually thoughtful. Scott is mutinous.)  
  


“I know you’re dating someone, Scott. We’re not aiming for ‘sleazy cheater’ here. The goal is to lay a few breadcrumb trails that could make simply make people wonder if you want to…” her voice trails off.  
  


“…touch each other where we pee,” Tessa finishes, her voice barely audible. Scott snorts.  
  


Annemarie laughs lightly. “Hear me out on this, ok? You know the deal – this is why you hired me. We have to build popular support to – in a best-case scenario influence – or in a worst-case scenario counteract – the ISU. It’s all about creating a fair playing field in Sochi, yes?”  
  


Scott says nothing, just picks at a thread in his t-shirt hem.  
  


“Yes,” Tessa answers for them. She doesn’t look at Scott when she speaks.  
  


“Then this is how we achieve that result. You’ve been building towards it all season with Carmen – what I’m suggesting is just an evolution.”  
  


_Not so much ‘building towards,’_ Tessa thinks dryly. _More like ‘consummating sporadically’ with not enough guilt afterwards.  
  
_

The night they performed Carmen for the first time in competition, she ended up straddling him naked in her hotel room chair at 2 a.m. And the thing was – Tessa had known he was going to knock on her door – known it from the minute they left the Kiss and Cry, his fingers skimming her palm long after the cameras had moved on. After going to bed at midnight, she had stared at the ceiling, just waiting for him.  
  


“Love and angst, unresolved feelings, palpable sexual chemistry that may or may not be unrequited – I don’t have to tell you that these are some of the most reliable marketing elements in existence, right?” Annemarie continues, her voice patient but firm. “These single-handedly sell albums, shitty celebrity perfumes, TV shows and hundreds of embarrassingly bad novels each year. This crap is just infallible.”  
  


Hiring her was Tessa’s idea. When Scott refused to seriously consider a coaching change, this was the necessary next step. They are on their own (whether Scott wants to accept that or not). Skate Canada is completely impotent, and Marina’s attention and loyalty has now been purchased by their rivals’ federation. These are unassailable facts in Tessa’s mind.  
  


Hell if she’s going to sit by with her thumb up her ass and watch the work and struggle of the last quad ( _and God, has it been a fucking struggle_ , Tessa thinks) go down in flames without doing something. Without throwing everything possible at gold in Sochi.  
  


Tessa clears her throat. “What are you proposing exactly, Annemarie?”   
  


“I’ve got a list of ideas to run by you,” she says brightly, and Tessa can hear the sound of shuffling notebook pages. “But really, there are two major potential projects I want to discuss today that I think will drive our narrative beautifully. But, if we want to do them, we’ve got to pull the trigger quickly.”  
  


Scott closes his eyes and hunches over slightly, as if bracing for a swift kick to the balls.  
  


“The first is a reality show – well, technically, we’re going to brand it as a docu-series, which will focus mainly on your training and preparation, but also highlight your unique relationship.”  
  


“Sweet fuck,” Scott moans softly to no one in particular. Annemarie barrels on.  
  


“And the second is a cover and feature photo spread in Today’s Bride, with you both in various wedding scenarios. Think edgy and sexy but still romantic…just a social media content goldmine.”  
  


Tessa watches as Scott’s head falls with a thump to the table.

****************************************************

_April 2013  
Toronto, Ontario – A warehouse studio  
  
_

Tessa has been in the hair and makeup chair almost an hour when Scott arrives to the shoot, dressed in dark jeans and black t-shirt. She tries and fails not to notice how good he looks.  
  


_He probably smells like morning sex with his girlfriend_ , she reminds herself sternly. _Get your shit together.  
  
_

They’ve been in different places the last few days in a rare break from training. She went home to London to see her mom and sister, and he went to visit Cassandra, his girlfriend.  
  


(Or, as Jordan likes to exclusively refer to her – The Knock-Off. _She does sort of look like me,_ Tessa thought fairly, after giving in and finally Googling her one night. _If you squint, tilt your head and ignore her weird little pointy chin._ Petty Bitch™ is dominant in the Virtue sister gene pool.)  
  


As Scott passes her chair, he squeezes the back of her neck gently in greeting, and says hello to the hair and makeup people. Sitting down, his eyes cut to her, and she smiles, watching closely to gauge his mood.  
  


The fact that he hasn’t been looking forward to this wedding shoot has been lost on precisely no one in their circle, least of all Tessa, who he seems to simultaneously resent and respect for her dogged commitment to their PR plan.  
  


She’s also caught snatches of many angry whispered cell phone conversations over the past few weeks, which primarily feature Scott saying the phrase, “I know, I’m sorry,” in many different varieties.  
  


Gina, the photographer’s assistant, comes in a few minutes later and introduces herself to Scott, having already met Tessa when she arrived earlier.  
  


“Carlyle wants to do the first set of shots in the main area near the cake display,” Gina says, consulting her clipboard and turning to the wardrobe stylist. “So, maybe start with the strapless ivory Mori-Lee gown and the charcoal suit and paisley tie for Scott?”  
  


Scott’s mood notwithstanding, Tessa is determined to enjoy this experience. She’s thrilled to be working with Carlyle Routh, whose photos are just amazing. And, she’s not letting this kick-ass hair and makeup go to waste either. Jordan is coming to Toronto in a few hours, and they’re staying the city tonight and going out.  
  


Moving behind the privacy screen that’s been set up for quick dress changes, she unsuccessfully chokes back a laugh when she catches Scott eyeing the paisley tie like he’s squaring off for combat.  
  


“Heard that, Virtch.”  
  


She generally likes all of Scott’s nicknames for her, but this one she hates. He’d started using it right around the time he started dating Cassandra, casually smothering Tessa with it in conversation like a proverbial platonic wet blanket.  
  


“Mmhmm,” is all she says in return. She suppresses another laugh when she hears him swear under his breath as the tie-tying process begins.   
  


****************************************************

The first set of photos are stiff. Tessa can just feel it, can tell by the way the photographer’s eyebrows pull together when she looks down at her camera between shots.  
  


They landed this photo shoot because the publication is betting their natural chemistry and ability to emote on the ice will translate to magical photos. The problematic part – their secret ingredient is (and will always be) their emotional connection. Which is…inconsistent at the moment.  
  


Tessa knows the weird vibe in the room is her fault, too. Her shoulders tense and her teeth grind when Scott’s cell phone vibrates non-stop in his pocket for five minutes straight, as they hold their arms rigidly around each other. Clearly, he knows that she knows exactly who is calling on repeat like a stage-five clinger.  
  


She’s irritated. He’s irritated and anxious. So…you know. Just like Annemarie drew it up.  
  


When they break for their first wardrobe change, she seizes her opportunity. With the stylist gone in search of a missing headpiece, Tessa initiates her emergency contingency plan.  
  


She fishes out two shot glasses and a bottle of Grey Goose Vodka she had painstakingly packed last night in her tote. Lining the glasses on the chair, she sticks her head around the screen.  
  


“Psst!”  
  


Scott’s head snaps up from texting on his phone. She inclines her head, motioning him towards her.  
  


Squatting down, she pours the shot glasses full of vodka, and carefully turns to hands him one.  
  


His eyes are wide. “I’m not sure whether to be impressed or disturbed,” he says, looking down at his glass. “Christ, Tess…it’s not even 11 a.m. This is an aggressive move, even by my standards.”  
  


And then, almost as if he can’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth, he adds in a rush, “Also, you look beautiful. I should have said that before now.”  
  


His eyes meet hers tentatively, and then he looks at his feet.  
  


She wants to say, _turn your stupid cell phone off.  
  
_

Or ask, _why the hell are we like this?  
  
_

Instead she says, “Consider this a thank-you gift,” as she motions toward the vodka.  
  


“For what?” A look of genuine surprise crosses his face.  
  


“For trusting me.” She smiles crookedly at him. “For always trusting me on stuff like this. For doing this shoot when you didn’t want to do it.”  
  


She tries not to look at his cell phone, which is vibrating again.  
  


He stares at her for a second, and then he smiles back, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that makes her feel 17 again.  
  


“Cheers,” she says, raising her shot glass to his.  
  


“Cheers,” he answers, tapping her glass lightly.

  
****************************************************

In the end, they don’t get hammered or anything. Truly, they don’t. ( _We’re still professionals_ , Tessa thinks determinedly, warm and fuzzy after another round of vodka shots in the unisex bathroom. The fact that she’s currently watching Scott shake with laughter at her insistence he turn the other way while she pees 6 inches from him suggests otherwise.)  
  


No, but really…they’re not drunk. They’re just loose.  
  


And it’s so much fucking fun.  
  


Tessa is taken aback when she tries to remember the last time they had fun like this – when things were this easy between them – and nothing comes to mind.   
  


Sometime around the third wardrobe change, she plugs her iPhone into the portable speakers and starts scrolling through her music.  
  


“Make good choices, Tutu,” Scott yells from across the room, pulling on a different shirt, his abs flexing as his arm crosses over to scratch his shoulder. “Don’t break my heart.”  
  


She stares at him, her finger hovering over her playlist, her eyebrows raised like a warning. Maintaining eye contact, she slowly lowers her finger down to the screen.  
  


It’s oddly satisfying how thrown off he looks for a minute, as his face processes the driving chords of an acoustic guitar and spare vocals blaring around the room.  
  


Then, he throws his head back and starts singing, upper body moving in rhythm with the drums.  
  


_Oh, I can hear them playin’  
I can hear the ringin’ of a beat up old guitar  
Oh, I can hear them singin’  
Keep on dreaming, even if it breaks your heart  
  
_

She grins at him, watching him bop around, singing and dancing like ten different assistants aren’t buzzing in between them, chuckling at their ridiculousness.  
  


“Eli Young Band is so money,” he says, as the song winds down. “I can’t believe you downloaded this. Play the whole album on shuffle?”  
  


She winks at him and sets her phone down on the table. She pretends not to notice as he powers his off.  
  


****************************************************  
  


Back in their street clothes, and alone in the dressing room, Scott sits in a makeup chair, watching as Tessa removes the final few pins from her hair and shakes it out.  
  


He’s been quiet since the shoot wrapped, staring at her from time to time, an unreadable expression on his face.  
  


A sweet slow song still softly playing through the speakers, she raises her hand to him for a high-five.  
  


“Nailed that today, Scott Moir.” He smiles, and gives her a firm high-five.  
  


But instead of letting go, he wraps his hand around hers and stands to pull her into a hug.  
  


“That was fun, eh?” His breath is warm on her neck.  
  


“It really was,” she says quietly, squeezing him gently, and tilting her head slightly to brush his.  
  


She realizes after a few seconds that they’re swaying in place. He pulls back and picks up her hand, moving them into a relaxed dance hold.  
  


Slowly, they begin move to the song in the background. She doesn’t want to look him in the eye, and she can sense he feels the same. So, they just revolve in their delicate little uncomplicated bubble, cheeks resting against each other.  
 

Goosebumps erupt up and down her arms as he begins singing along, voice low and scratchy in her ear.  
  


_Crazy girl, don't you know that I love you?  
And I wouldn't dream of goin' nowhere  
Silly woman, come here, let me hold you  
Have I told you lately?  
I love you like crazy, girl  
  
_

His hand around her waist moves up to her shoulder blades, fingers trailing up the ridge of her spine. She feels lightheaded and wishes vaguely that she could blame the vodka.  
  


When the song ends, she turns and kisses his cheek. She feels both relief and disappointment when he lets go and puts space between them.  
  


“Thanks for the dance, Virtch.” He doesn’t meet her eyes as he grabs his cell phone off the chair. “Where are you and Jordan headed tonight?”  
  


“Somewhere we can dance,” she says, doing a little shimmy. She’s pretty sure her smile isn’t as breezy as she might have hoped. “Are you staying in town?”  
  


She carefully doesn’t ask about The Knockoff.  
  


 “Yeah,” he answers, glancing at his phone. “Guys night out with Jack and Steven since I’m in their part of the world…maybe we’ll run into each other, yeah? I can buy you a drink since we demolished your vodka supply.”  
  


“I’m not sure Toronto is _that_ small,” she says, laughing.  
  


He looks up from his phone and holds her gaze. His smile is almost a smirk.  
  


“You’d be surprised.”  
  


****************************************************  
  
_April 2013  
Toronto, Ontario – King West nightclub district  
  
_

Jordan is dead set on going to Wildflower, a new club in King West – she even calls ahead and reserves a booth and bottle service.  
  


_Look at your hair and makeup, Tess,_ she had said when Tessa suggested something a little bit more low-key. _Look at your ass in that dress._ _It’s on like Donkey Kong.  
  
_

(Jordan isn’t blowing smoke about her ass in this dress. It looks fabulous, and no amount of humility will make that untrue, Tessa thinks with a shrug. One-shouldered and royal blue, it hugs every curve she has, and she’s been waiting forever to wear it.)  
  


Once they arrive and find their way to their booth, Tessa feels like they’re getting drunk in an upscale art gallery. A giant abstract floral bush is suspended above the DJ booth, and contemporary art covers the walls. It’s cool and disorienting at the same time.  
  


They have a drink and chat about the shoot. Tessa doesn’t mention the impetus for the secret vodka shots, but entertains Jordan recounting the day. She leaves out their impromptu slow dance at the end, too, because Jordan already suspects she and Scott aren’t really just friends, even though this has been the party line to their nosy siblings for more than two years.  
  


After dancing to a couple of songs, and downing a glass of water, she’s making her way to the ladies room when she feels her phone vibrating in her clutch.  
  


Pulling it out, she sees a selfie of half of Scott’s grinning face, as he holds up a pint in a salute.  
  


_Cheers, T! Hope you and Jordan are dancing your asses off  
  
_

She laughs because how can he still be so bad at operating his cell phone camera? Then she laughs out loud again at his next message.  
  


_But for real, don’t let creepers dry hump you. Do you need a human cock-block? You know it’s one of my gifts  
  
_

Tessa doesn’t even hesitate. They had a great day. (The best day, she thinks. Their best day in a long, long time.) She’s two martinis in, and honestly, Scott Moir needs to see her in this dress – dance with her in this dress.  
  


_I need both a cock-blocker and non-creeper dance partner. Jordan and her hooker heels of pain can’t keep up with me  
  
_

Then she sends him a short video she filmed earlier in the night of her dancing, Jordan cursing freely down at her brand new shoes in the background (which Tessa had warned her not to wear).  
  


He replies almost immediately.  
  


_Where are you?  
  
_

She smiles.  
  


_Wildflower in King West_. _Text me if you decide to come  
  
_

****************************************************  
  


Tessa loses track of time, because the DJ is amazing and every song is dance-worthy. Jordan has finally gotten smart and is now holding her hell heels in her hand and dancing barefoot, which is probably against the rules, but whatever. There are so many people packed on the dancefloor that Jordan’s feet aren’t noticeable.  
  


As Drake’s “The Motto” starts playing, the beat blistering off the walls, the crowd gets louder than ever. She’s laughing at something Jordan said, when she feels hands slide around her waist, lean hips pressing into her ass.  
  


Right on cue with the beat, a voice in her ear raps over Drake, “My team good we don’t really need a mascot.”  
  


She tries to spin around to face him, but Scott holds her steady, her back to his front, moving them together with the down beat. Jack and Steven, his two hometown friends who now live and work in Toronto, are dancing with Jordan, laughing as she hands them each a shoe to hold.  
  


When the Drake beat eventually fades into a more laid-back drum track, the crowd screams in recognition.  
  


“You want to keep dancing?” she asks, speaking directly in his ear, cupping her hand on the side of her mouth to be heard. “Or do you want to get a drink?”  
  


“I came to cock-block and dance,” he says, and pulls her toward him, as the hook of the next song plays.  
  
  
_So what we get drunk  
So what we smoke weed  
We’re just having fun  
We don’t care who sees  
So what we go out  
That’s how it's supposed to be  
Living young and wild and free  
  
_

They scream the last two lines, along with everyone else in the club, and their hips brush against each other like magnets.  
  


His eyes are bright, his hair sticking up where she’s run her hands through it, and God, he looks so good that Tessa thinks falling face-first into a pile of Legos might be less painful.  
  


His eyes track all over her, down her legs, back up to her breasts, landing on her face. His face is exasperated.  
  


“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this dress, T?” She’s backed up against him again, the two of them grinding together deliciously.  
  


She doesn’t answer him, just keeps moving her hips, and smiles at Jordan, who’s giving her the “you think you’re real slick, huh?” face, as she watches them from their table.  
  


“I need a refill,” Tessa says finally, dancing him towards the edge of the dancefloor in the direction of the bar.  
  


Scott grabs her hand, and they walk together to the bar, weaving through clusters of people. She and Jordan have bottle service, and Tessa should tell him that, but honestly, she just wants to keep him to herself for a little bit longer.  
  


He orders her a dirty martini and himself a beer.  
  


“Stay right here,” he says, handing her the martini and cutting back towards their table.  
  


A few seconds later, he returns with his coat, and lacing his fingers through hers, they walk towards an outside patio.  
  


It’s somewhat heated, thank God, and has a half-dozen small tables spaced haphazardly. He winds them to the only open one, which is tucked in a dark corner. It only has one chair, which is probably why it’s empty.  
  


They look at the single chair and each other for a few seconds, carrying on a wordless conversation, before he pulls her down lightly on his lap and lays his coat over her to keep her warm.  
  


Between the low and insistent beat of the music and the gentle buzz from the dirty martini, she feels deliciously relaxed sitting with him like this. He tightens one arm around her middle, pulling her gently back toward his chest.  
  


“Right now,” he murmurs, his voice low and lazy, “I feel completely perfect.”  
  


Tessa hums in agreement, and leans her head back against him.  
  


His right hand rests lightly on her bare leg under the jacket, and after a few minutes, she notices his thumb has begun to rub small circles on her inner thigh.  
  


“You smell amazing,” he says on an inhale, leaning his forehead on her shoulder. “And you look amazing.”  
  


He exhales heavily. “And apparently, I have zero self-control today when it comes to you.”  
  


A few seconds pass, and then her stomach lurches as he moves her high ponytail out of the way and places an open-mouthed kiss against the back of her neck.  
  


His hand suddenly goes still on her thigh, and it feels like he’s holding his breath.  
  


“Can I touch you, Tess?” The hot warmth of his mouth this close makes her feel like she’s treading water in the deep end of a wave pool.  
  


With a movement so small it would be unnoticeable to anyone else, she spreads her knees further apart under his hand in answer, and kisses him gently on the neck.  
  


Shivering, he begins to stroke her inner thigh again in tight circles, gradually moving higher until the tip of his thumb is just under the hem of her dress.  
  


Brushing his lips up and down the side of her throat, he sucks on her pulse point for just a moment, and she feels liquid heat pooling low in her hips.  
  


“I need you to tell me, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice almost completely inaudible.  
  


So, she does.  
  


Twisting so her mouth touches the shell of his ear, she whispers back, “Turns out my self-control sucks, too.”  
  


Then, she covers his hand with hers, and under the cover of his coat, she places it between her legs.  
  


His fingers brush the edge of her lace panties, and she can feel him swallow hard as he slowly moves them to the side, working hard to move his arm as little as possible.  
  


Dragging his middle finger up and down her slit, he collects wetness down low and then moves up to circle her sensitive nub – he does it over and over until she can feel fresh sweat collecting at her hairline.  
  


When he begins to lightly pinch her clit between his thumb and index finger, she thinks she may have to ask him to stop because, sweet God, it’s too hard to be quiet.  
  


“Does it feel good, T?” he breathes into her hair. “I want it to feel good.”  
  


She tries to smother a moan.  
  


“Do you need more?” He shifts her up on his lap, taking care to make it look like he’s just re-distributing her weight in the chair.  
  


In answer, she moves her hips ever so slightly, squaring up so that his hardness is nestled right into the sweet spot of her ass.  
  


On his next pass down her core, he slips two fingers into her, halting to a dead stop once he’s fully inside. Casually, he looks around, and she does too, noticing that the patio crowd has thinned out and the only other occupied table is in the opposite corner.  
  


His fingers start to thrust gently, and her hips begin to ride his hand involuntarily. When his thumb begins to rub her in circles, he presses his face against her neck and starts talking, his voice rough.  
  


“You drive me crazy, Tutu. You know that, right? Shit, you feel so good. You’re perfect, Tess. Perfect. You’re killing me when you move like that. Just like that, pretty girl.”  
  


On and on.  
  


Her thighs are shaking around his hand, like she just finished a thousand walking lunges. She feels a drop of sweat roll down the back of her neck and then feels him lap at it with his tongue.  
  


_Holy. Fucking. Shit.  
  
_

“I’m so close,” she grits out in the quietest voice she can manage, turning slightly so she can see him. “God, Scott, please…”  
  


“I’ve got you, Tess,” he says soothingly, and then a gunshot goes off in her brain because he crooks his middle finger mid-thrust and begins rubbing a circle against her inner wall.  
  


As she comes, she looks at him, trying to watch him through it. He leans in and kisses her on the mouth for the first time, sweet and slow and deep.  
  


As she falls back to earth, legs still shaking, he swipes his thumb against her nub one last time and moves his hand back to the top of her thigh, squeezing it softly.  
  


They sit there for a few minutes, his arms holding her tightly, while her breathing and heartrate return to normal.  
  


“Somewhere in New York City,” Tessa says seriously into the quiet darkness, “Annemarie just fist pumped.”  
  


They laugh so hard that she snorts, which makes Scott laugh harder. Finally, hiccupping slightly, she rests her head in the crook of his neck and feels him kiss her shoulder.  
  


Yes, his cell phone has been vibrating against her hip since they sat down 20 minutes ago. And, yes, it’s probably full of missed texts and calls from a girl who looks too much like her.  
  
“Come dance with me,” she says anyway, stretching and bending back to kiss the corner of his mouth. And, then she leads him back inside.  



	4. The beginning of after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Tessa first realizes that Scott could actually marry someone else, she’s standing in the middle of the Ilderton Community Centre, the summer after Sochi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to take a different approach to the next few chapters. Instead of writing one long last chapter, I'm going to break it up into four shorter chapters, with each focused on a specific moment in time in the lead-up to, and aftermath of, the comeback. 
> 
> And, I pinky swear promise this is leading somewhere happy. Stick with me. I've got big ideas.
> 
> Hearing that people are connecting to the stories I'm telling really does help me write faster, so if you have a minute to chat with me in the comments, please do.

_Ilderton - Spring 2014_

When Tessa first realizes that Scott might marry someone else, she’s standing in the middle of the Ilderton Community Centre, a few months after Sochi.  


She arrives at his grandfather’s 87th birthday party half an hour late, after nearly backing out twice. Unfortunately, being an innate people pleaser is a bitch, and she told Scott’s mother, Alma, she would stop by, so here she is.  


Attempting to slip unobtrusively into the party is a complete failure, and she barely gets past the cake table before she’s immediately surrounded by people. Smiling warmly and saying ‘thank you’ is basically all muscle memory at this point, but she does her best to be engaged and focused as person after person tells her how proud she and Scott have made their little corner of the world.  


She hears Scott’s laugh before she actually sees him.  


His arm wrapped loosely around Kaitlyn’s shoulders, hers slung comfortably around his waist, she watches them sway in the middle of the dancefloor, grinning at each other. He throws his head back and laughs again at something she whispers in his ear, and his face is open, relaxed and just…really happy.  


Tessa had expected this – she knows they’re getting serious, has felt it in the deliberately careful way her mother updates her about all things Scott after the occasional coffee with Alma.  


Hell, she’d seen this coming the last week they were in Russia – watched numbly as Scott slipped easily into the giddy singlemindedness of a serious crush.  


(She and Scott have discussed Kaitlyn, the gut-wrenching night after the medal ceremony and anything other than tour logistics and idle chit-chat precisely not at all. Because why begin healthy relationship habits now that the tie that binds has been unwound?)  


“…and, so I told her that the next time I saw you and Scott, I’d pass her congratulations along and tell you both how much she loved you both,” finishes one of Scott’s second cousins, smiling brightly at Tessa, yanking her attention away from the dancefloor.  


“I’m so glad I ran into you here, then,” she replies smoothly, reaching out to touch the woman’s arm. “Please let her know how much her support has meant to us always.”  


After a few more kind words, she holds up her empty punch glass and shakes it gently, smiling apologetically.  


“Excuse me while I run to the ladies room…it really was so great to see you again.”  


Letting her eyes slide right over Scott and Kaitlyn’s intertwined form, she turns, determined to find Scott’s mother, wish his grandfather a happy birthday and then make her exit.  


Before she realizes what’s happening, she walks right into a strangle-hold hug, her face smashed into someone’s chest, her heart thumping at the sudden contact.    


“Hey, lady!” Danny, Scott’s brother, leans down to kiss her cheek. “Mom is over the moon that you were able to make it.”  


“Hey,” she answers back, swatting him good-naturedly on the shoulder as she disentangles herself. “Holy crap, you startled me…send out an effing warning whistle the next time you’re coming in hot like that.”   


He laughs, and she does too, because really, Danny is just the best.  


“How have you been?” he asks, and she inwardly cringes, because his expression clearly indicates he wants to know – will demand to know – a real answer.  


“Really well, actually…just keeping myself busy with things I never had time for over the last…” her voice trails off for a second “…ever.”  


She smiles ruefully, shaking the ice in her glass to give her hands something to do, before pitching it into a nearby trash can.  


He watches her thoughtfully for a few seconds, and she notices for the first time that he has small laugh lines at the corners of his eyes.  


“Let’s dance,” he says unexpectedly, and before she can make polite excuses, he pulls her to the dancefloor.  


Swinging her around easily, Danny maneuvers them so that she’s facing away from most of the other dancers (i.e., Scott and Kaitlyn), and takes her hand in his.  


“Oh God,” she groans, now registering his expression clearly. “You’re about to make me have some kind of ‘the best is still in front of you’ conversation to a Toby Keith song, aren’t you?”  


“You know who made this playlist, right?” He cuts his eyes meaningfully over Tessa’s right shoulder.  


“My suffering has been long and painful,” she says seriously, and he lets out a loud, barking laugh. She can feel eyes on her back, as people (including the couple over her right shoulder) look their way.  


They spin slowly in a circle, gently swaying back and forth, as a comfortable silence settles between them.  


After a while, he says, his eyes gentle and sweet, “I’m – we’re – so proud of you, Tess. For Sochi, for persevering through the clusterfuck of the last couple of years, for holding your head high the entire time – and helping Scott hold his head high, too.”  


He lets out a long breath and continues.  


“You’ve both done and achieved incredible things. And now – don’t look at me like that, Tessa Jane, because we’re doing this shit – and now, you’re going to go conquer the world like the badass you are and live a completely amazing life.”  


She grins at him and squeezes his hand as they dance for a few more minutes.  


“He needs you,” he says, his voice quiet, and it catches her off guard. Tessa’s head snaps up. But, Danny just looks at her steadily.  


“Wait,” he says, as she opens her mouth to respond. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two in Sochi, or hell, what exactly happened over the past five years in general, since that’s how long you’ve both been acting like moody asshats.”  


She starts to retort again, but he holds up his hand in protest. “I just want to say this one time for the record, and then I swear I’ll never mention it again.”  


Waiting, she stares fixedly at a small wrinkle in his shirt collar, as Toby Keith finally (blessedly) fades into Willie’s Nelson’s version of “Always on my mind.”  


“He needs you,” he says again. “He’s always going to need you. And, no matter what you think right now, however tired, burnt out, disappointed or hurt you are, you need him too. He loves you, Tessa. He’s loved you for a long time.”  


“No, I know.” And, she really does, truly. “We’re always going to be special to one another, Danny. I know that.”  


Before she can stop herself, she adds, working hard to make sure her voice is light, “He looks really happy,” and then, “And I’m happy that he’s happy.”  


Danny’s eyebrows pull together slightly. “But, that’s what I’m trying to tell…” he starts to say, when two hands grab her shoulders.  


“Virtch! I wasn’t sure you were going to show.”  


She feels Scott pull her into a loose side hug, and she automatically looks at Kaitlyn, smiling as genuinely as humanly possible. Kaitlyn smiles back, and hers is genuine too, because, somehow, he is dating the nicest, most confident-in-her-own-shoes person that Tessa has ever met.  


“Hey, yourself,” she says easily to him, squeezing him once, before reaching to hug Kaitlyn. “Nice playlist, Moir. Although this song is a significant improvement from the last two.”  


He laughs, not quite looking her in the eye. “Can’t lie…most of these songs are Road Trip Rejects.”  


Road Trip Rejects were what she and Scott called songs one of them had banished to a mutually agreed upon no-play list – a critical strategy to not choking each other to death during their constant travel together over the years.  


His eyes finally meet hers, and there’s something tense about the way he looks at her. “Save me a dance tonight?”  


She watches as his hand finds Kaitlyn’s in a familiar, unconscious way, his thumb running over her knuckles, as Willie sings in the background.  


_Little things I should have said and done_  
_I just never took the time_  
_But you were always on my mind_  
_You were always on my mind_  


“Wish I could.” She carefully looks at both Scott and Kaitlyn as she speaks, trying to address them both. “But, I double-booked myself tonight, and your brother grabbed the last spot on my dance card.”  


She leans in and kisses Danny’s cheek quickly.  


“I promised I’d find your mom before I leave, and I’ve gotta give the birthday boy a hug, too.” Tessa turns to go and throws out one last smile. “You guys tear up the dance floor for me, though.”  


Because her exit is about as quick and easy as her entrance, it’s a full 20 minutes before she leaves the party and climbs back behind the wheel.  


She wasn’t lying – she had deliberately double booked herself tonight. In the darkness of the car, she sees a missed call and two texts from Ryan, her on-again…whatever he is. They’re meeting for drinks and a movie in a little less than an hour.  


Turning the key in the ignition, she sits staring at nothing for a few minutes, listening to the sound of the purring engine. Then, she glances at the clock on the dash through blurry eyes and adjusts the air vents so that cold air blows hard directly at her face. Methodically, she wipes away the watery black mascara trickling down her cheeks until it’s time to drive back to London.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, but really. Stick with me. It's going to get happy and sexy and fun...but we all agree that immediate post-Sochi wasn't likely many of those things? 
> 
> Talk to me in the comments...love hearing from y'all!


	5. Arrested Development

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early winter and spring 2015. The return of Danny Moir. Tessa at a balls-to-the-wall college party. Scott partly removes his head from his ass. I promised more fun and so here we are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I'll likely never again update twice in one week. I write so slowly most of the time and tend to noodle. But, dang if this chapter didn't write itself in like four hours. It was insane. 
> 
> Second, it's 800 words longer than planned. But I think we can all agree that Danny Moir is always preferable to no Danny Moir ten times outta ten, yes? Yes. (Also, for those that asked what Danny was going to say last chapter...you're welcome. This is why you comment...then I feel compelled to do things.)
> 
> Third, I listened to Miguel's/Mariah Carey's #Beautiful on repeat writing this. (God, the styling of that song title is just the worst.) Give it a listen to get on my level. :)
> 
> Lastly, I love this chapter a lot. I love it so much I'm nervous to post it because what if you don't love it like I love it? Either way, leave me a comment and let me know. Truly, I wrote this one as fast as I did because of all of your encouragement and feedback on the last one. 
> 
> Lastly for real, I said stick with me, and I hope you will because this is only going to get more fun.

_Early Winter 2015 – Molly Bloom’s Pub, London, Ontario_

“The thing is – if I could just get my shit together – I think I could love her…I don’t know…in the future or something. But, I told her the other night that I did love her, which makes me a liar who lies because I don’t yet.”

Scott realizes he needs to shut the fuck up right this very minute, but his filter left with a ticker tape parade somewhere around his sixth whiskey and water.

Dana, the long-suffering bartender at Molly Bloom’s, gives him a sympathetic smile and slides him another glass. When he raises it to his lips, slopping liquid down the front of his shirt, he realizes it’s a whiskey and water - hold the whiskey.

Irritated, and opening his mouth to complain, Dana holds up her hand, stopping him cold.

“First,” she says, giving him a level look, “it’s water from here on out, Moir. Don’t make it awkward.”

“Second, you are kind of lying liar,” she continues, the corners of her mouth twitching as he lays his head on the bar pathetically. “But, I don’t think you’re a bad guy. Just an unhappy one.”

“I don’t know why you would say that,” he counters, voice muffled against the old, scratched wood. She chuckles and begins loading clean glasses into the hanging racks.

“Whiskey makes me happy,” he says, lifting his head hopefully. “Be part of the solution, Dana.”

“You want to call Danny or your girl to come get you?”

“Fine. Be that way,” he sighs, pulling out his cell phone and texting Danny.

(Kaitlyn is traveling for a series of matches in Winnipeg. The truth is – he wouldn’t call her anyway. She’s seen him hammered a few too many times lately. Her worried, sad face the last time she ferried his drunk ass home from another bar at 2 a.m. is burned shamefully into his brain.)

Danny arrives less than a half hour later, bearing a giant bottle of water, a handful of ibuprofen and a cheeseburger.

They drive silently for the first few minutes, as Scott eats his burger and then washes down three ibuprofen.

“Over the past year, you’ve been 88% worthless, drunken sloth and 12% productive member of society,” Danny says finally, keeping his eyes on the road. “And, I want to be clear that the 88% estimate is me channeling the generous spirit and unconditional love of Alma Moir.”

Scott says nothing, just rests his head on the window and waits for the rest. He knows he deserves it, knows he’s worrying all of them – his parents, his dipshit brothers, Kaitlyn, maybe even Tessa (but that’s another conversation altogether).

“You get what you’re doing, right?” Danny’s voice is exasperated.

“No, but I gather you’re going to fill me in.”

“Yeah, I think I will, thanks. In a nutshell, you’ve thrown your relationship with Kaitlyn into hyper-drive because – and only because – you’re overcompensating for the fact that the rest of your life is basically moving so slow it’s going fucking backwards.” He stops and looks at Scott for a second. “Am I nailing it so far?”

Scott doesn’t answer.

“I also think you don’t want to deal with the Tessa stuff – you don’t want to remember or process or whatever.” He waves his hand around vaguely before continuing. “And all of that combined makes you feel like shit – makes you want to drink everything away.”

Scott hates it when one of his older brothers is right, but Danny is mostly right on this. Mostly.

Things have progressed too fast with Kaitlyn, and Danny’s probably also right about why that happened.   
 

But, he’s wrong, too.

Because the truth is, when Scott is sober, he’s insanely good at keeping certain memories and feelings about Tessa in an airtight, padlocked box tucked far away in his mind.

But not when he drinks. When he drinks, he lets himself painstakingly unpack his favorite scenes of them over the years like he’s thumbing through his beloved vintage hockey cards collection, turning each one over and examining the details from every angle. 

 _They think I drink to forget,_ Scott thinks dully. _But really, I drink to remember._  


_God, I’m some kind of fucked up._  


A tense, uncomfortable quiet fills the car.

“I’m sorry,” Scott says after a while, swallowing hard. “I know I’ve been a pain in the ass.”

Danny squeezes his shoulder gently in response. “How does Tessa feel about everything right now? About the possible comeback you both keep tiptoeing around?”

“How the hell would I know? Tessa’s real feelings about most things have been a mystery since 2008.”

“Really?” Danny sounds borderline angry again. “I only see Tessa a handful of times a year, and I was pretty fucking clear on her real feelings a few months ago at Gramps’ birthday party. Are you shitting me right now, Scott?”

“You sound like mom,” he mutters. “It’s not that simple.”   
                           

“So, simplify it. Talk to her. Tell her how you feel, what you want. You’re not happy, Scott.”

 “And, that’s not a slight against Kaitlyn,” Danny says gruffly after a beat. “She’s a nice girl.”

“Yeah, she is.” Scott sighs tiredly. “She really is.”

******************************************  
 

 _Spring 2015 – Ilderton Skating Club_  


“A costume horseshoe tournament, eh?”

Tessa laughs and buries her head in her hands.

“I keep trying to think of a reason to back out, but…” Her voice trails off. “It’s the year of yes, you know? And, I said I wanted some of the true university experience. So…YOLO, I guess?” She giggles again.

They’re stroking around the rink, warming up for a practice session for an upcoming Stars on Ice show. This is their new normal now – practicing some here and in Toronto, with a few trips in between to Montreal to work with new choreographers and Marie and Patch – gradually ramping up their frequency and intensity as each show gets closer.

The return of touring season and the familiar rhythm and structure of practices, more regular gym workouts and even business meetings feels good to Scott.

Tessa feels good to him – happier and freer. Their relationship seems – not where it should be exactly – but more solid and less on edge. Which feels good, too.

“So, what are you going as?”

 _Please don’t say a sexy nurse,_ he thinks without warning.  

“Well, our study group is doing a group costume thing. The party is next week…and we’re still arguing over ideas.” She snorts. “I mean, it’s four 20-year-old guys and me, so obviously, our creative visions are a bit different.”

“What happened to all the female psychology students at Western?” Scott asks (sort of) jokingly.

“The only other girl in our group is out of town for a wedding.” She slides to a stop at the boards for a drink of water, then swallows and wipes her nose. “Which sucks, because I could use an ally.”

She grimaces. “The closer it gets, the more I know I’m going to want to bail…but I’ve gotta power through. Just queue up my ‘get dressed’ song on repeat and own it.”

Her face is so determined and serious as she says this, it makes Scott laugh.

“Your ‘get-dressed’ song, huh?”

“It’s critical,” she says matter-of-factly. “Makes all the difference.”

“It’s ‘Maneater,’ isn’t it?”

She gives him a withering look and then laughs, even though she tries not to. Grabbing her skate guards, she clomps back to the sound booth.

A few seconds later, the sounds of a sultry electric guitar, tambourine and a throw-back beat echo around the rink. The singer sounds like Prince’s younger brother, and it makes Scott think of a long drive – windows down, feet on the dash.

And, also really hot slow sex. Both, really.

“It’s good, yeah?” She snaps off her guards and glides toward him, moving her upper body with the beat. “It’s my go-to right now.”

 _You’re beautiful_  
_And your mind is fucking beautiful_  
_And I can’t pretend_  
_That doesn’t mean a thing to me, to me, yeah_  


He feels his head moving unconsciously with the beat, too. When he looks at her again, she’s watching him happily, with that bright, open smile that always makes his stomach flip.

In his mind’s eye, he can clearly see her dancing to this around her house in her bra and jeans or sitting on the edge of her bed, dress sneaking up her thighs as she puts on her heels.

“You wanna skate to it for a little bit before we jump in?” She’s full-on dancing now, moving her hips along with her shoulders.

He takes her hand and tries to get a grip.

****************************************** 

 _Following Thursday – Scott’s house_  


A little before midnight, he and Kaitlyn are watching a movie on his couch, her bare legs resting in his lap.

She’s wearing one of his oldest Leafs t-shirts – Tessa’s favorite shirt, actually. In fact, it used to live at Tessa’s house. He can’t remember how many times he’s seen her wear it for treatment after competitions, following practice at the rink or in a thousand hotel rooms over the years.

When he’d finally unpacked after Sochi, he’d found it tucked neatly in with the rest of his clothes.  He had contemplated throwing it away, but that made him feel like a dramatic 13-year-old girl. So, deep into the drawer it went, until Kaitlyn unearthed it tonight.

Rationally, he knows Kaitlyn looks cute it in, her panties peeking out of the bottom and thick honey-colored hair hanging over her shoulder, obscuring part of the logo.

But, he feels irritated. And like he needs a drink. So, he gently moves her legs and gets up to make a whiskey and water.

On his way to the kitchen, his phone vibrates with Tessa’s name. Instinctively, he walks to the back porch before clicking ‘accept.’

“I’m too old for this, and I should have chickened out,” she says in greeting, laughing breathlessly.

On her end of the line, he can hear the muted, faraway sounds of people talking and hip hop music.

“You’re not too old, T.” He chooses to ignore how happy he is to hear her voice. “This is the costume horseshoes thing, right?”

“I’m going to send you a pic of our team. I just…this whole night has been insane, Scott. Hold on.”

“Ok,” she continues. “Did you get it?”

Scott moves the phone from his ear and looks at the screen.

 _Jesus Christ on a motorbike._  


The four Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles surround Tessa, who’s dressed as April O’Neil, her curves (which have returned like gangbusters after Olympic stress and training) on full display in April’s signature yellow jumpsuit.

Scott tries not to let his eyes linger on her undone top three buttons.

“Wow,” he says, clearing his throat as he lifts the phone back to his ear. “You guys really went for it.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot going on there,” she says. “But, we’re completely boring compared to some of these people. I mean…there’s a team here wearing nothing but adult diapers.”

She pauses. “Which they’re using.”

He lets out a shout of laughter.

“No, listen, you have no idea. I’m going to send you another pic. Wait for it…”

He turns his phone around and has to sit down he’s laughing so hard. “Is that…ass-less chaps?”

“And a Mountie hat,” she confirms.

“How the fuck did you end up at a party on the island of misfit toys?” he asks, wiping his eyes.

“Really poor life decisions.”

He laughs again. “Where are you at? The bathroom? I feel like I can hear you really well given the fact you’re at some crazy rager.”

She giggles, but for the first time, Scott detects a little anxiety in the mix.

“I’m actually in one of the house bedrooms...but I think I accidentally locked myself in? The door knob, uh, fell off a few minutes before I called you.”

“It’s kind of an old, run-down house,” she adds, unnecessarily.

“Holy shit, Tess.” He starts laughing, but he’s also a little worried about her.

“It’s fine,” she says reassuringly (more to him than to herself, Scott thinks). “I texted all four of the turtles, and one of them will eventually see the texts and/or come looking for me.”

“It didn’t look like Donatello and the gang had pockets for cell phones,” he says, trying to bite back more laughter. “Do you want me to come get you?”

“Nope, I’m good…it’s totally going to be fine, once…” She stops speaking abruptly.

“T? You good?”

He hears her blow out a breath.

“So, how many gallon milk jugs full of pee is too many?” she asks conversationally. “Like, how many do you think crosses the potential serial killer threshold?”

“Gallon jug? Full of pee?” he repeats blankly.

Tessa laughs nervously.

“One fucking gallon, Tess. One fucking gallon is too many. Are you telling me there are gallons of piss sitting around this bedroom?”

“Four that I can see,” she says, giggling again weakly. “I don’t know how I missed them at first. There’s also a collection of treasure troll dolls.”

“I really am coming to get you,” he says with finality, standing up to find his keys.

“No, no, no,” she says adamantly. “I’m fine. Just talk to me until one of my idiot study partners sees his phone.”

As if she can sense his indecision, she forges on.

“I’m sorry I’ve kept you on the phone for so long…hopefully I haven’t hijacked your night.”

“You never hijack anything, T.”

He can hear her smile through the phone. “I think you’ll always be the person I’ll want to call when locked in a creeper’s bedroom, surrounded by jugs of piss and troll dolls,” she says, laughing a little.

The way she says it is so unguarded and genuinely sweet, he closes his eyes for a second, willing himself in this moment to just be different. Feel differently.

Loud banging and muffled shouts on her end of the line interrupt the ill-advised reply hovering on the tip of his tongue.

“APRIL!!!! WE’RE COMING TO HELP YOU!!!”

Their drunken yelling is so loud, it’s like they’re on the back porch with him.  
 

“The rescue mission is underway,” she deadpans, and they both start laughing again.

“Text me when you get home safely?” This isn’t their normal procedure these days (not by a long shot), but it comes out of his mouth before he can censor himself.

“I’ll try,” she answers, the banging and shouting growing louder. “My phone battery is almost dead. But don’t worry – I’m cabbing it home.”

“APRIL, STAY CALM!!!!”

She dissolves into laughter again, and they say a quick goodbye as he hears what he thinks are the turtles breaking the bedroom door down.

He sits on the porch for a few more minutes, laughing out loud periodically, before realizing he’s been outside a long time.  

Tiptoeing into his bedroom, he finds Kaitlyn snoring softly on her side of the bed, curled up in the fetal position, her braided hair resting between her breasts.

 _She has a side of the bed now_ , he thinks suddenly, startled by the realization.

Careful to not wake her, he climbs under the covers and plugs his phone into the charger, placing it on the nightstand with the sound on.

****************************************** 

With a start, he wakes up a couple hours later, and picks up his cell, disappointment filling his chest at the sight of his text-free locked screen.

The odds of falling back asleep most nights aren’t great, and he knows tonight won’t be an exception. The persistent insomnia he’s experienced over the last few months has been such a whipping. 

Rummaging quietly in the drawer for his headphones, he slips them on and plugs them into his phone.

Hating himself more than a little, he thumbs to his new downloads, and finds what he’s looking for – a song sung by guy that sounds a lot like Prince’s younger brother, one that makes him think about long drives, slow sex and a beautiful dark-haired girl.

He turns on his side, facing Kaitlyn’s peaceful form. The last thing he sees before drifting off to sleep is the moonlight glinting off his old Leafs t-shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm neeerrrrrvous about this one, for some reason. Come talk to me in the comments and tell me what worked for you (and what didn't).
> 
> Next up...the comeback and the aftermath.


	6. New Operating Instructions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When, despite their best efforts, everything doesn't go exactly according to plan (or according to the plan within the plan).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the thing on this chapter...I struggled and nit-picked. And then struggled and nit-picked some more. I had a lot of story I wanted to tell, but none of y'all are trying to read a 6,000-word chapter, so here we are. Remember when I said I would extend this out so the chapters were shorter? That was cute of me. 
> 
> There's some sexiness near the end so I'll post the obligatory "maybe don't read this at work" warning.
> 
> I hope you like it, and most of all, that you have fun reading it. If you don't like it, that's ok too. Come talk to me in the comments either way...it's more fun.

**_July 2015 – Scott’s house  
  
_ **

Tessa wasn’t supposed to hear the conversation, obviously.  
  


“I get that you’re hurt, Kait. You think this whole thing is about Tessa – you’ve made that perfectly clear.”  
  


_Shitshitshitshitshit.  
  
_

Trapped in the purgatory of the hallway between Scott’s kitchen and living room, she’s ten minutes early to drop off t-shirts for tomorrow’s junior skate clinic – and irritated as hell at her inability to be anything except punctual.  
  


“I’m so sorry,” he says tiredly, in response to whatever Kaitlyn’s said. “I just didn’t want to lie to you. I know I should have handled a lot of things differently.”  
  


Slowly and carefully, she tiptoes back to the laundry room, taking care to open and shut the back door again loudly to announce herself.  
  


“Scott?” she yells. “Can you help me out? There’s approximately 678 shirts in my car.”  
  


She hears him say something in a low voice, as the sound of his footsteps grows nearer.  
  


“Approximately 678?”  
  


Trying to smile at her, he slips his phone into his back pocket. “Hey kiddo,” he says, leaning in to give her their now customary side hug.  
  


Instead, she takes one look at his exhausted, sad face and wraps her arms around his neck, the t-shirts in her hands falling to the ground with a soft thump.   
  


Frontal hugs are not a thing with them anymore. The last time she held him like this outside of a performance was the night of the medal ceremony in Sochi. When everything finished falling apart.  
  


He stiffens, and she starts to pull away, embarrassed.  
  


But then his hands slide up and grip her biceps. Forehead dropping to her shoulder, he blows out a deep breath she hadn’t realized he was holding, the warm air on her collarbone making her shiver.  
  


“Just five more seconds like this, ok?” He sounds so much like the kid he used to be that Tessa feels her eyes start to burn.  
  


“Ok,” she answers quietly. “Take all the seconds you want.”  
  


************************************************  
  
  
_**August 2015 – Beijing  
  
** _

“I think this tastes even better when I think about how much grilled fish and kale we’re about to eat for the next three years.”  
  


The two of them are devouring Jian Bing from a push cart for dinner, sitting hip to hip on a street bench near their hotel.  
  


Tessa bumps Scott’s shoulder with hers playfully. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you, Moir?”  
  


“Hell no.” He winks at her and smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’d eat nothing but wheat grass and steamed leaves for the rest of my life if it meant competing with you again.”  
  


Her throat tightens. “Same,” she says after a moment, and leans over to kiss him on the cheek.  
  


Finally, after weeks and weeks of dancing around it, they’d both laid their comeback cards on the table over the morning’s long car ride to the Great Wall. The plan was hashed out relatively quickly – No to Marina, yes to Patch and Marie and Montreal, and yes to innovative and aggressive approaches to training, music and choreography. It was almost too easy, honestly.     
  


Enjoying the hypnotic dull roar of the city at night, they finish their food in companionable silence, when Scott clears his throat.  
  


“Since we’re officially doing this, there’s one other thing we need to talk about.”  
  


_Shitshitshitshitshit.  
  
_

“So, I’ve been seeing a therapist for the past four months,” he says, turning to look at her.  
  


This pronouncement is not at all what she expected him to say, so she’s momentarily wrong-footed and tongue-tied before the truth tumbles out.  
  


“Me too. Since last year, actually.”  
  


They stare at each other, and her tentative smile is reflected in his face.  
  


“Originally, I started going because I…my life was kind of a mess, and I was drinking too much,” he says, shifting his gaze to the street. “I just had a lot of stuff I needed to figure out in my own head – old fears and insecurities I projected onto you and us, especially recently.”  
  


He takes a deep breath. And then another. “I want to do it right this time. I want to be better, not just for me, but for you, too. Because you deserve it.”    
  


_I haven’t always,_ she thinks. _Not really.  
  
_

The image of his crumpled face in her bed that first night in Canton a million years ago flashes in her head. Then, the awful night after the medals ceremony in Sochi – the things she hadn’t said. How she had pretended not to see him fall apart over the last year. Shame and guilt knife through her, as all the ways she’s failed him run in a perpetual loop.    
  


“Our relationship…everything that happened and where we ended up – that’s not just on you.” Her voice breaks. “For a long time, I know I’ve shut you out or hurt you because of my own hang-ups. You deserved – you deserve – better than that.”  
  


He considers her for a second, and then tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear. “You’ve always been the better half of us, Tess. Always.” The way he’s looking at her right now causes an actual ache in the middle of her chest. “The stronger half, too.”  
  


“That’s not’s true at all, Scott – truly it isn’t.”  
  


She attempts a laugh but the back end of it sounds more like a sob. “God, don’t do this to me. Now I’m ugly crying in public.”  
  


“Unfortunately, you couldn’t be ugly if you tried.” Smiling almost grimly, he reaches out to catch one of her tears with his thumb. “Which brings me back to the thing we have to talk about.”  
  


“Right,” she says faintly.  
  


_Shitshitshitshitshit._

 

“When we’re together, I want to kiss you.”  
  


He says this so calmly, so matter-of-factly, he could be reading the current weather conditions aloud. “I’ve tried to stop wanting to kiss you a million different ways since like 2008, and nothing has worked.”  
  


_I don’t want to have this conversation with mascara and snot on my face._ She tries to inconspicuously wipe her eyes and nose with her sleeve.  
  


“But, when we’ve been, uh, not strictly friends,” he continues, bravely trying to maintain eye contact, “I think we both agree it’s affected our skating – sometimes for the better, but mostly not.”  
  


Scott runs his palms up and down the tops of his thighs nervously.  
  


_How many times have we actually discussed our relationship? Less than three? No wonder we both need therapy_ , she thinks.  
  


“We’ve said before that getting back on top means emotional consistency and balance, right?” His voice is still composed, despite the clear fact he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.  
  


“Right, absolutely,” she agrees.  
  


But, because she apparently can’t have nice things, she also adds, “For the record, though – I think about kissing you, too…even though I know it isn’t smart.”  
  


Tessa’s eyes dart to his mouth in a way that should embarrass her, if he wasn’t staring at her mouth too.  
  


Tearing his eyes from her lips, he blinks rapidly a few times. “Ok. We need a plan.”  
  


She nods. “A plan within the plan.”  
  


And so they agree to terms that are, on the surface, simple and straightforward.  
  


First and foremost, no touching each other where they pee in the lead-up to Korea.  
  


Second, if they slip up, no blame or regrets. They address it honestly in their individual and joint therapy sessions and immediately re-set.  
  


Third, no trying to pretend their attraction off the ice doesn’t exist like they have in the past. (It hasn’t ever worked anyway.) Instead, they’ll control and use their chemistry to improve their performances.  
  


By the time they arrive back at their hotel an hour later, Tessa feels empowered, prepared and positive. They’re ready. They can break bad habits and build healthy ones. They love and respect each other enough to stick to the plan.  
  


It takes all of five minutes for her to realize that their simple terms, while sensible and well-intentioned, are going to be really fucking hard to follow.  
  


“Don’t watch any episodes of ‘The Walking Dead’ tonight without me.” Scott pulls her into a tight hug in front of her door, burying his face in the crook of her neck.  
  


“Watching that show before sleeping gives me weird dreams, so no worries there,” she assures him.  
  


“No weird dreams allowed – only sweet ones.” Feather light, his lips brush her cheek.  
  


They should let go now.  
  


_Move your arms first,_ she thinks desperately. _Mine won’t do what I tell them.  
  
_

But, he doesn’t. He just keeps holding her, the two of them folded into each other like perfectly constructed nesting dolls.    
  


“I’ve got one more term to add to the plan within the plan,” he says finally, letting go and taking a step back. “When we get to the other side of this thing, we talk about us.”  
  


Eyes locked on hers, he walks slowly backwards toward the elevator bank. “For real this time. Agree?”  
  


She stares back, blood pumping like she just sprinted the length of the hallway twice.  
  


“Please say yes, Tutu.”  
  


A wave of terrified joy rolls through her at the hopeful, sweet expression on his face.    
  


“Yes,” she says, and it’s like her heart is tied to a hot air balloon.  
  


The smile he gives her in return could easily light up every skyscraper in Beijing.  
  


************************************************  
  


_**July 2016 – Montreal**  
_  
  
“I walk into hot yoga feeling like a highly-honed athlete,” Scott says disgustedly, opening the door to his apartment and stepping aside to let Tessa in first. “And, I walk out smelling like the inside of skunk’s ass and questioning whether I actually competed at an Olympic games.”  
  


Laughing, she busies herself unpacking the sushi they picked up on the way home, trying to not to stare like a horny weirdo at his bare chest and abs as he strips off his sweaty shirt.  
  


_It’s been more than a year since I’ve had sex,_ she thinks defensively. _Looking is fine. Well within the boundaries of the plan.  
  
_

“I think your technique was much better today. You’re too hard on yourself.”  
  


“That’s sweet of you to call what I do in there ‘technique’ when we both know I just give’r and pray I don’t tear my groin.”  
  


“Definitely don’t want you to do that…we’re going to need your groin,” she says, laughing again.  
  


It’s out of her mouth before she can reel it back in.  
  


“You need my groin, eh?” His grin is feral. “You’ve gotten filthy in your old age, Tess. I like it. I like it a lot.”  
  


_Oh, God. If you only knew.  
  
_

She swats him and turns what she can only imagine is a hideous shade of burgundy.  
  


“I meant for skating. We’re going to need your intact groin for skating.” She rearranges the cartons of food anxiously. “Leave me alone…I’m starving and just sweated out every brain cell in my body.”  
  


Clearly deciding to take pity on her, he tosses his cell phone on the table. “Patch filmed our practice on Tuesday. Find it in my videos so we can do film study while we eat. I’m going to grab us something to drink.”  
  


She taps his photo app to find Patch’s video, when suddenly it feels like every one of her ribs is disintegrating into sludge in the pit of her stomach.  
  


Picture after picture of a pretty blonde fill his phone – her with her arms around Scott, the two of them dancing and laughing, a close-up of her kissing him on the cheek.  
  


Panicking, Tessa clicks the home screen and lays the phone down, just as he rounds the corner with their drinks.  
  


“Let’s eat,” he says happily.  
  


“You know what?” She gets up so fast she almost knocks her chair over. “I really, really need a shower so I’m just going to take my food to go. Film session tomorrow, ok?”  
  


He stares at her, his mouth hanging open slightly, as she jerkily returns her food back to the containers.  
  


“What’s wrong? You’re acting weird.” He puts their cups down and starts around the table towards her.  
  


She backpedals so quickly that her hand is now resting on the doorknob. “Nothing’s wrong. I just…I’m gross and tired, and it’s better if I just call it a night.”  
  


He looks at her and waits.  
  


They hold each other’s gaze until she forfeits the staring contest and glances away.  
  


“OK, Tess,” he says gently. “If that’s what you want.”  
  


************************************************  
  


Sinking into a hot bath with a glass of wine a half hour later, Tessa lets herself fully wallow in both self-pity and her own stupidity.  
  


As it turns out, their plan within the plan has a huge – monumentally fucking huge – hole.  
  


While they’ve agreed to avoid messing with each other’s bodies and hearts in the run up to the Olympics, there was no such discussion about third parties.  
  


_This is completely natural and ok,_ she thinks with forced calm. _No promises were made. We just said we’d talk after Korea. We could easily decide we’re better off friends in the end. This doesn’t change the plan or the goal.  
  
_

But, she cries anyway and decides to blame her low blood sugar.  
  


When she emerges from the tub, she puts on her robe, and forces herself to eat her abandoned dinner. As she begins to transfer her cup and plate from the sink to the dishwasher, she hears a soft knock.  
  


“Tess, will you open up? I know you’re awake…I can hear dishes banging around.”  
  


_Shitshitshitshitshit.  
  
_

“I probably should’ve waited for you to call me,” he says as she lets him in, his hand raking through his hair anxiously. “But I know you’re upset – and after re-tracing every millisecond of earlier like a crazy person, I think I know why.”  
  


She stands there silently, holding an empty plate in one hand and her heart in the other.  
  


“You saw the pictures on my phone from that wedding a couple of weekends back.” It’s a statement, not a question.  
  


“Your camera skills have improved dramatically.” Her voice is so dry and flat that a tumbleweed blows by them in her living room.  
  


Jaw twitching, he walks to her couch and sits, resting his forearms on his legs, hands laced together.  
  


“First of all, nothing happened,” he says evenly. “She was a bridesmaid who flirted with every guy there, and she insisted I give her my phone so she could take all of those stupid photos. I’d had a couple of beers, so at the time, it seemed harmless enough.”  
  


When she doesn’t respond, he adds, “I left with my parents before midnight.”  
  


“You don’t have to explain.” She turns and places the plate she’s still holding on the bar so she doesn’t have to look at him. “We never said…as far as the plan goes, you’re perfectly within…”  
  


He rises from the couch and moves toward her so suddenly that she flinches back slightly.  
  


“Honestly, Tessa – the plan can go fuck itself right now.” He shakes his head and looks at his shoes. “I haven’t been with anyone since Kaitlyn last summer.”  
  


Swallowing hard, he looks up. “Ask me why.”  
  


“Scott – you don’t need to…”  
  


“Ask me why, Tessa,” he repeats, quietly but clearly.  
 

Somehow, they’re now only a few inches apart, both of their heads beginning to turn automatically at the perfect angle.  
  


“I want to ask you why…you have no idea how much,” she breathes, their mouths so close that her eyes shut reflexively like they’re already kissing. “But, it’ll make this so much harder to sort out tomorrow.”  
  


His mouth brushes against hers once – so lightly that Tessa might have imagined it. The second time, she captures his lower lip and sucks gently.  
  


“Do you want…?” His voice catches and then dies.  
  


“Yes, please.” She wraps her arms around his neck and moans as his tongue pushes into her mouth.  
  


One of his hands slides up and tangles into her wet hair, pulling and tilting her head – kissing her like she may kick him out at any minute.  
  


“I’ve missed you so much, T.”  
  


Twelve months of celibacy combined with Scott – the guy she’s adored and wanted since she was 16 – doing unspeakably amazing things to her mouth while they rub against each other, his thigh wedged between her legs…it’s just too much.  
  


Aware the remnants of her self-control are slowly circling the drain, she forces herself to pull away slightly.  
  


“We can’t have sex, Scott,” she pants. “I really want to…but we can’t.”  
  


_It’ll hurt too badly tomorrow when I have to give you up again.  
  
_

They stare at each other drunkenly, and then both lean in at the same time, mouths moving against each other slowly, all lips and no tongue, until she feels like she may scream.  
  


“But, you can’t leave right now, either,” she whispers roughly, hands creeping under his shirt and running her palms up his stomach and chest before she pulls it over his head. “Say you won’t.”  
  


Grabbing the back of her thighs, he lifts her easily, and she wraps her legs around his waist, her bathrobe bunching around her hips.  
  


“Let me make you feel good, Tess.” The way he says it makes her shiver with anticipation. “Will you let me do that?”  
  


He lowers her to the couch, and squats on his heels between her legs, playing with the tie on her robe and waiting for her signal.  
  


“Yes,” she whispers, running one hand through his hair. His eyes are wild and bright, pupils blown wide. He’s so, so beautiful.  
  


And, then her robe is open, and he’s kissing down her sternum, stopping to suckle at her breasts while he rubs his hands up and down her legs.  
  


Dropping to his knees, he pulls her forward, so that she’s right at the edge of the couch cushion. Her eyes roll back as he kisses and sucks the outside of her opening one side at a time, moving to lap lazily at her center again and again until she’s trembling all over.  
  


“You look so gorgeous right now.” He thrusts two fingers inside and begins to combine the movement in time with his mouth.  “You’re all I think about – you know that, right?” The feel of his voice against her core causes tiny explosions behind her eyes.  
  


Everything below her waist seizes up when she realizes he’s pulled down the front of his sweat pants and is roughly working himself with his free hand as he brings her closer to the edge.  
  


_Sweet Jesus,_ she thinks, as she comes in hard, fast waves. _That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.  
  
_

When she rises back to the surface a minute later, he’s on his knees watching her intently, still holding himself in one hand. She slides off the couch and pushes on his chest until he’s flat on his back.  
  


Climbing between his bent legs, she takes him into her mouth without a word.  
  


“Holy fuck, you’re going to kill me,” he moans, propping himself up on his forearms to watch and running his fingers through her hair. “This is every wet dream I’ve had since I was 15. Literally every single one.”  
  


She laughs with her mouth still around him, and he moans and thrusts up, his thighs shaking.  
  


“Please don’t stop, Tess. Please.”  
  


So, she doesn’t – not until they’re both spent on the floor, her head resting on his chest, their hands intertwined.  
  


************************************************  
  


When Tessa wakes, she’s alone in her bed. Even though she doesn’t remember him leaving, she’s sure Scott isn’t here. Rolling over, she reaches for her phone on the nightstand and sees a missed text from an hour ago.  
  


_Ran home to shower. Reminder that we meet with the new therapist at 9. Good timing, eh? I’ll bring the coffee.  
  
_

“Unnnngh,” she groans inarticulately, briefly considering smothering herself in her pillow before stumbling to the bathroom.  
  


She doesn’t notice it until a few minutes later, as she sleepily waits for the shower to warm up.  
  


Folded neatly on her bathroom counter is the Leafs t-shirt she’d returned to him in Sochi, a yellow sticky note with Scott’s distinctive scrawl on top.    
  


_Let’s be honest…this shirt has always been yours, T.  
  
_

Smiling, Tessa buries her face in its folds, unashamedly letting his smell fill up her brain. Slipping it over her head, she impulsively snaps a picture of herself and sends it to him with a short message.  
  


_I promise to take better care of it this time around.  
  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what did you think? I've got ideas on how to land this weird little plane, but I'd love to hear from you too. And if you’ve gotten this far...thanks for reading!


	7. Same song, different dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2017 in a chapter...whew. Re-defining a 20-year relationship while trying to win a gold medal doesn't come without Danny Moir and Patrick Chan cameos...and a little angst and sweetness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stop me if you've heard this one...but, I'm adding another chapter. I know. I KNOW. But, I want to do post-Korea right, and I'm gonna need one more chapter to do that. Hopefully you're down and will stick around. 
> 
> Honestly, this chapter was an effing joy to write. Unlike the last one, which involved lots of wailing and gnashing of teeth, this one was so easy. And, so, so much fun. I hope reading it is fun, too. Please enjoy the first made up/composite character of the fic. He's French, hot and smart. I think you can see where this might be heading. 
> 
> As for the last 1000 words...I don't even know, y'all. I just don't. I'm sorry? You're welcome? 
> 
> Leave me a note and automatically become one of my favorites...love chatting with each of you.

_Day after Christmas 2016 – Ilderton, Ontario  
  
_

Scott loves kids. Really, he does – wants to have a couple of his own someday.  
  


But today isn’t that day.  
  


“Hey twat face,” he whisper-hisses at Danny, as they pass in the cramped hallway of their parents’ house. “Fuck you very, very much for buying every kid here a loud-ass--”  
  


As if on cue, a bombastic, high-pitched fart noise rips through the air, followed by the howling laughter of over-sugared, under-supervised children.  
  


“Is it me,” Danny asks with a serious, contemplative look, “or did that last one sound like a question? Did you hear how it went higher at the end?”  
  


“Congratulations, everyone hates you.”  
  


“Au contraire, mon frère.” Danny grins as he follows Scott into his bedroom. “I’m the mothereffing MVP of Christmas. Santa has nothing on me.”  
  


Scott rolls his eyes and scratches his nose pointedly with his middle finger, sliding his boots on with the other hand.  
  


“I’m going to the rink. It’s either that or hit up the liquor cabinet…and since I’ve got the tolerance of teenaged girl right now, I think skating is best for all involved.”  
  


He jams a Leafs toque on his head, and shoulders past his brother.  
  


“Tell mom not to wait up.”  
  


“Tell Tessa ‘you’re welcome’ for the present.”  
  


Scott grabs the package off the counter and two sets of keys, scratching the back of his head with his middle finger at Danny on his way out.  
  


***********************************************************  
  


Convincing Tessa to meet him at the rink this late at night wasn’t exactly a hard sell. Since her parents’ divorce, he knows her holidays are spent splitting time between two houses, smiling through passive-aggressive jabs, while stepping over and around old hurts and resentments that seem to multiply this time of year.  
  


At that thought, he circles back through the Tim Hortons drive-thru a second time and orders her an old-fashioned donut to go with their coffees.  
  


She’s waiting by the front door of the rink when he pulls in, looking impossibly cute in her heavy coat and hat pulled down low over her ears. Wedging the wrapped gift under his armpit, he carefully picks up the cardboard drink tray with their coffees and the donut and makes his way toward her.  
  


“You need me to hold something?” Her frozen breath clouds around her makeup-free face, her hands extending toward him uncertainly.  
  


“Grab the key out of my pocket,” he answers, shifting slightly to expose his pants pocket.  
  


When he feels her hand slide in, her fingers gently rooting around for the small key chain, he wants to punch himself in the face.  
  


Because he’s instantly hard. Embarrassingly hard. It’s been five months since someone else (see: Tessa) has visited that particular neighborhood, so he guesses this is to be expected.  
  


Her warm hand goes still inside his pocket.  
  


“It’s the pleats.” He cuts his eyes to her grinning face. “But, don’t act like you’re not impressed.”  
  


She belly laughs at his dead-accurate Ron Burgundy impression and fishes the key out in one fluid movement. Mercifully, she turns away to unlock the door, giving Scott time to awkwardly adjust himself and locate his dignity.  
  


Flipping on the lights, he places the items in his hands on a bench and cranks up the heat. As he strips off his hat and coat, he sees her holding up the donut bag and the gift, shaking them both excitedly.  
  


“Did you bring me a donut AND a present?” She shifts from foot to foot in anticipation, and he can’t help but grin at how young and adorable she looks right now.  
  


“Yes and yes. But I can’t take credit for the gift – it’s from Danny.”  
  


The light dims in her eyes for a second as she smiles fixedly at him.  
  


_Wait,_ he thinks desperately. _We haven’t exchanged presents since we were kids_. _Shit.  
  
_

“That was sweet of him,” she says, dropping the donut bag to the bench and working the tape on the gift with her fingernail.  
  


“Don’t say that just yet.” His voice falls just short of natural as she pulls the paper off.  
  


With a perplexed face, she studies what looks like a violently pink TV remote encased in the torso of a rainbow-maned unicorn. Gingerly, she presses one of the buttons on its flank, nearly dropping it when a low, bass note fart blasts from tiny speakers and a puff of powdery pink glitter shoots from the unicorn’s butt.  
  


“Oh my God,” she yells, laughing hysterically. “What the hell is this?”  
  


She begins trying each button, doubling over as disturbingly authentic yet distinctly different fart noises echo around the rink.  
  


A fine layer of pink sparkles now cling to her eyelashes and hair, making her look like some kind of beautiful cartoon fairy.  
  


“Imagine 12 of those going off for three hours straight in a confined space. He’s on my shit list for at least a year,” he says, laughing at how hard she’s laughing, brushing some of the glitter off of her face.  
  


Carefully, she places the unicorn in her tote bag and pulls out her skates, flopping down on the bench to yank off her boots.  
  


“I seriously needed that tonight,” she sighs, still giggling slightly as she laces up her skates. “Tell him he made my Christmas. Best gift ever.”  
  


A dull throb crawls from his gut to his chest.  
  


“Tess, I sh--”  
  


“Get your skates on,” she says, smiling and clapping her hands in a playful command before picking up the small donut bag beside her. “I’m going to get warm while I eat my snack…thanks for this, by the way.” She squeezes his shoulder slightly on her way to the ice.  
  


He watches her skate by, her fingers pinching off bites of the cake donut, flecks of pink glitter swirling gently in her wake.  
  


***********************************************  
  


She seems to be in no hurry to get home. They’ve been standing in the freezing cold rink parking lot for the past ten minutes with both of their cars running, as she chatters in free flow about Jordan’s new condo.  
  


“Do you want to take a ride?” he finally interjects, when she pauses to take a breath. “I’m not ready to go back to the land of 12 fart machines just yet.”  
  


Laughing, she climbs into the passenger side of his Dad’s truck in answer, while he fiddles with the radio.  
  


“Uh-oh,” she teases, as he settles on a Motown XM station. “I feel like you’re buttering me up for some reason?”  
  


“Can a guy not grow and evolve in his old age?” He flicks her messy bun. “I do listen to stuff besides bro country and The Tragically Hip.”  
  


She snorts doubtfully, but pats his arm in acquiescence.  
  


They drive in peaceful silence for a few minutes, Aretha singing softly in the background.  
  


_OK,_ he thinks on a silent exhale. _Therapy only works if you use it. Ready or not.  
  
_

“Does it bother you that we don’t give each other gifts?”  
  


They never really had – at least, not since they were kids. This was yet another Tessa and Scott oddity that completely befuddled their families, their mothers especially. There were moments when one of them could have altered the pattern – probably should have altered the pattern. But they hadn’t. Just one more line that felt safer uncrossed.  
  


“I feel like I need to defend the honor of the Marvin the Martian body pillow right now,” she answers in mock outrage. “Not to mention the three hideous friendship bracelets I made you in grade 6.”  
  


He almost lets her get away with it – almost surrenders the moment on their old, trusty altar of conversations left unsaid.  
  


“Be real with me for a second,” he says gently instead. “Don’t deflect, alright?”  
  


Out of his peripheral vision, he watches her twist the silver ring she wears on her middle finger around and around.  
  


“In all seriousness,” she says after a while, turning to stare out the window. “It’s not like we’ve never given each other stuff.” Her expression in the glass reflection is unreadable.  
  


When he doesn’t say anything – just lets the silence stagnate, she says with a forced laugh, “I mean, my legs count, right?”  
  


She keeps her eyes trained out the window. “I gave you my legs. You gave me the best years of your career when any other sane person would have bailed.”  
  


“Those should totally count,” she finishes, after a few more seconds of quiet. Her voice catches slightly at the end.  
  


Around and around she turns her ring, the skin underneath raw and pink. It feels like there are a dozen razorblades stuck in Scott’s throat.  
  


Without taking his eyes from the road, he reaches over and lays his hand on top of hers, lacing his fingers through one.  
  


“I’m going to pull the truck over now.”  
  


“What? Why?” she asks in alarm, looking at him squarely for the first time since they began this discussion a few minutes ago.  
  


He cautiously maneuvers them off the side of the road, puts the truck in park and turns on the hazard lights.  
  


“Because I’m going to hug you, and then I’m going to try really fucking hard not to kiss you.”  
  


Her eyes widen as he reaches across the console and pulls her to him, cupping one of his hands around the back of her neck, his thumb resting softly on her pulse.  
  


“They count,” he murmurs in her ear, feeling her relax fully into him in a way that breaks his heart a little. “Everything counts with us, Tess.”  
  


**********************************************  
  
_Montreal – August 2017  
  
_

Watching men flirt with Tessa is not a new thing. She was pretty teenager who transformed into a stunningly beautiful woman. Scott has navigated years of douchebag boyfriends, nervous but well-meaning good guys and straight-up drunk creepers – all putting the moves on her. He basically has an undergraduate degree in it.  
  


Watching her flirt back, though? It sucks way worse than he remembered.    
  


“Do you think he knows he looks like an asshole with his shorts rolled up like that?”  
  


Patrick snorts in response and takes another long sip of his drink. They’re standing near the bar at La Socca, an hour into a B2ten mixer event for former, current and prospective clients.  
  


“He’s French, man. They’re like dog years ahead of the rest of us ugly peasants when it comes to fashion,” Patrick says through a mouthful of vodka soda. “Which means she probably loves his rolled up shorts.”  
  


The facts are, Pierre Simard is an impressive, attractive bastard, and from what Scott can tell tonight, he’s being courted heavily by B2ten to join their team as a consultant. According to Patrick’s Google search a few minutes ago, Pierre is a former professional French soccer player with a Master’s in sports psychology from McGill, who plans to pursue a doctorate and career in the disability sports arena. In summary, he’s good-looking, really smart and also kind-hearted.  
  


_Fuck my life_ , Scott thinks dully, as he watches Tessa touch Saint Pierre’s arm for at least the third time as they talk intently, their heads bent toward one another.  
  


“I’ve had a couple of drinks, so I’m going to call this like I see it,” Patrick says, setting down his glass, and steering Scott in the opposite direction of Tessa. “You’re acting like a jealous boyfriend. So…uh…is that what you are and you just forgot to mention it?”  
  


They’re standing outside now, the soft warm breeze scattering leaves around the empty patio.  
  


“No.” Scott sits down at a table facing the restaurant so he can maintain a visual. “We’re not discussing anything like that until after Korea. She can do whatever she wants with whoever she wants.”  
  


Patrick gives him a pointed look.  
  


“They’re having a conversation, Scott. Not humping in the coat closet.”  
  


Through the window, he sees Tessa and the French asshole begin to laugh uproariously at something, his hand reaching out to rest on her lower back.  
  


“Right,” Scott mutters tersely, standing up. “Looks like that’s his next move though, eh?”  
  


As he strides through the patio doors back into the bar, Patrick scurrying behind in his wake like the world’s most anxious wingman, Scott gives a silent, purposeful middle finger to each and every emotional control tool he’s acquired in therapy.  
  


“Hey man, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Scott Moir.”  
  


Pierre stops mid-sentence and stares at the outstretched hand, which is thrust between the Frenchman and Tessa aggressively. Scott can feel her startled gaze, but doesn’t meet her eye.  
  


“Very nice to meet you.” Pierre recovers quickly and grasps Scott’s hand firmly. “Tessa and I were just talking through my new research project. She has great insights, with her background in psychology.”  
  


“She’s absolutely brilliant,” Scott agrees, engaging in a truly stupid amount of unbroken eye contact. “I can see why you’ve been keeping her all to yourself over here in the corner.”  
  


A pregnant silence permeates the awkward little circle.  
  


“So, your work with B2ten...” Scott continues, looking steadily at Pierre. “Tessa and I are passionate about the Paralympics, and I know you’re working with some athletes here locally. I’d love to learn more.”  
  


As Pierre launches into a response, Tessa finally catches Scott’s eye, and gives him an even, calculated look.  
  


_Who’s the asshole now?  
  
_

Fifteen minutes later, she excuses herself to the ladies room, and Scott begs off a few moments after for the same reason, leaving Patrick to wing it alone.  
  


He loiters shamelessly around the hallway to the restrooms, so that when she turns the corner, she almost runs into him. The expression on her face is decidedly post-competition press conference neutral. In the current context, it’s fucking terrifying.  
  


“Tess, look…I--”  
  


His voice dissolves in his throat as she leans in and closes the gap between them, her breasts grazing his chest, breath tickling his ear.  
  


“Should we go to the ladies room together?”  
  


_What. The. Fuck. Is. Happening.  
  
_

A kaleidoscope of images flood his brain, and all of them involve her unzipping his pants.  
  


“So…you know…” she continues, nuzzling in still closer, her smell wrapping itself like a boa constrictor around his brain. “That way you could at least piss on me in private this time.”  
  


Jerking back abruptly, she gives him one last level stare, turns on her heel and then strides out of the restaurant toward the line of waiting taxis.  
  


**********************************************  
  


_Grand Prix Final – Nagoya, Japan – December 2017  
  
_

“It’s happening again. It’s fucking happening again, Scott.”  
  


They’re cross-legged on Tessa’s hotel bed, a tray of half-eaten room service food and a lot of bad déjà vu sitting between them.  
  


“It’s not happening again,” he says, with more certainty than he actually feels. “We made – I made – a few mistakes tonight.” She shoots him a look. “What? It was me…it wasn’t you. You were spectacular, Tess.”  
  


“Maybe we weren’t as sharp tonight.” She angrily stabs a piece of asparagus with her fork. “But the score in the short was a joke. A total joke. I feel like – just at the worst time humanly possible – the momentum is swinging away from us. They’re setting the stage for the result they want.”  
  


He rubs his thumb up and down the front of her shin, knowing that she’s so angry, she’s on the verge of crying, which will only enrage her further. Tessa hates to cry.  
  


“We’re going to fix the free,” he says quietly but firmly. “We’re going to rework the music and choreography, especially the ending, and the combination of those things and our superior fucking skating is going to be so undeniably better that there won’t be any other option but to put us first in Korea.”  
  


She pushes the tray away and lays backward onto the pillows, her hands over her face. They don’t speak for a minute.  
  


“Ok.” She exhales loudly and sits up, face dry but eyes still bright with angry tears. “Alright. No more shop talk. I want to watch a movie and erase tonight from my brain.”  
  


Moving the tray of food to the small table, he grabs her laptop, and scoots next to her on the bed.  
  


“You can pick.” He hands her the computer and leans in to kiss her cheek. “As long as it’s something funny.”  
  


They’re 20 minutes into _The Big Sick_ , when the room door next to them slams shut with loud bang, high-pitched giggling reverberating through the shared wall.  
  


“Weird…no one was in that room last night,” Tessa says, her voice low. “I hope that’s not a si--”  
  


A loud, shuddering moan. Then another one. And another.  
  


_“God, yes. Just like that.”  
  
_

Scott cuts his eyes to Tessa, who is sitting poker straight and staring fixedly at the laptop screen.  
  


_“Your mouth feels so good, baby…don’t stop. Don’t stop.”  
  
_

“Is this a joke?” Tessa hisses, outraged.    
  


“She sounds pretty serious about the whole thing,” he says, and she swats his shoulder.  
  


A keening wail knifes through their wall, followed by more moaning.  
  


“So basically,” she grits out, her quiet words coated in fury, “I get to lose, and then I get to lose again by listening to someone else’s amazing sex life through the wall all night. What a fitting end to this shit show of a week.”  
  


As if on cue, the bed next door begins to thump against the wall repeatedly, accompanied by some of the filthiest dirty talk Scott has ever heard.  
  


It’s awkward. It’s so hot. He has no idea what the hell to do.  
  


Should he leave? Or would that be more awkward?  
  


Suddenly, he notices that Tessa has gone completely still and quiet beside him. Unable to stand the silent sexual tension a second longer, he says, keeping his eyes focused on the movie, “If there was ever a night where we earned the right to ditch the plan, I think it’s tonight.”  
  


When he turns to look at her, she’s watching him intently, her mouth slightly parted.  
  


“It took us two weeks to fully work through the after-effects of last time,” she says in her most reasonable voice. “We don’t have two weeks to spare this time – we’re less than 100 days out.”  
  


“True. I’m not dis--” The rest of his reply is drowned out.  
  


_“Oh my God, yes, yes, yes. Suck me just like that. Just like that.”  
  
_

Before Scott can process what’s happening, the laptop is on the floor, and Tessa is straddling him, hands pushing into his hair, jerking his face to hers.  
  


She tastes like chocolate from the mini-bar, and all he can think is that he’ll never get enough of her. He could kiss her like this every day until the day he dies, and he’d still want more.  
  


“What if…” Her words drift off gently, as their tongues wrestle, slipping over and around each other like practiced choreography – like it hasn’t been months since they last kissed.  
  


“What if,” she tries again, pulling away slightly, “What if we keep our clothes on?”  
  


“Ok,” he says, because honestly, she could be proposing another reality TV show right now and he’d be in, as long as she keeps kissing him.  
  


At his words, her hips begin to move against his, almost hesitantly at first, and then more urgently.  
  


“Am I allowed to…?” He plays with the low neck of her tank top, and chants _pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease_ silently in his head.  
  


She yanks the neck of her tank down in response, and thank Christ she doesn’t have on a bra. Grunting appreciatively, he sucks one of her nipples into his mouth, scraping his teeth along it lightly like he knows she likes.  
  


_“Hard just like that, baby. Go deeper.”  
  
_

He’s too turned on to be embarrassed when he notices that they’re moving in rhythm with the thumping next door.  
  


“God, Scott,” she moans, but quietly so only he can hear it, shivering as he sucks and kisses her other breast. “I miss us. It’s so good, even just like this. It’s always so good.”  
  


Her head lolls back as she rubs against him harder and faster.  
  


“You’re the most beautiful thing right now. You should see yourself,” he breathes, flicking his tongue alternately between her nipples. “Take what you need, pretty girl.”  
  


She moans, and this time, it’s not quiet.  
  


The thumping seems to be reaching a frenzy now, and it’s kind of like listening to sex in surround sound.  
  


He reaches down with his thumb and begins rubbing between her legs over her leggings, gripping her ponytail with his other hand.  
  


Crying out, her eyes slam shut and her mouth falls open, and he finally (finally) allows himself to let go too.  
  


She falls forward against him, and he wraps his arms around her, gently tugging her tank top back up. Laying his head on top of hers, he runs one of his hands up and down the ridge of her spine.  
  


“It’ll always be good like this, kiddo.” He’s too blissed out to stop the words from coming out of his mouth. It’s true, and she needs to understand that. “Don’t ever think otherwise.”  
  


Wetness spreads on his shirt where her cheek is resting. She looks up at him, and Scott wonders where all the air in the room has gone.  
  


“The endorphins are making me cry.” She tries to laugh, but her bottom lip trembles wildly.  
  


“Is that all?” Their eyes fix on each other.  
  


“Not really,” she answers, as he wipes one of her tears with his knuckle. “Not even nearly all.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me in the comments. I promise to respond, and I promise to be fun.


	8. BONUS SCENE - Same song, different dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bonus scene to Same Song, Different Dance...set a few days after the B2ten mixer. Happy Friday!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joni79...this is for you, friend. Your feedback was instrumental here. Guys, if you love this, thank Joni. If you hate this, thank Joni.
> 
> In an early draft of the latest chapter, I wrote a scene after the B2ten mixer showdown...a come-to-Jesus of sorts. I shelved it, thinking I'd rather use parts of it in the final chapter. I re-read that original extra scene today as I'm outlining the new chapter...and hated it with the fire of a thousands suns. Like, really, really hated it. 
> 
> So, that was that. I was prepared to let it go. Then! The back half of that scene at the bar -- the back half I wished I'd written to begin with -- popped into my brain and out onto the screen. And, I liked the crap out of it. So, here it is. Happy Friday.

_August 2017 – MELK Bar a Café_

Scott’s sitting at a table right by the window when she walks in, his baseball hat turned backwards, two cups of coffee on the table. Unlike everyone else in the café, he’s not engrossed in his cell phone – a face looking up in a sea of heads turned down.  
  


_A pretty face, damn it,_ Tessa thinks resignedly.  
  


They make eye contact as soon as she crosses the threshold, and he half-smiles, before looking away.  
  


It’s been two days since he metaphorically marked his territory at the B2ten mixer.  
  


They’ve trained, and skating-only, stilted conversations have come and gone, but neither of them has addressed the last real conversation they had.  
  


They also haven’t been to therapy yet this week, so that’s been a blessing and a mercy. Not a particularly productive blessing or mercy, mind you.   
  


For the past two mornings, Tessa has gotten her coffee at Starbucks instead of here, disrupting their normal routine. She realizes this is punitive. She realizes the way she’s processing her anger with him isn’t helpful.  
  


But, he embarrassed the shit out of her.  
  


He scared the shit out of her, too.  
  


Hanging her purse on the corner of the empty chair, she sits and wraps her hand around the paper coffee cup.  
  


“Fancy seeing you here.” She sounds calm, if not particularly warm.  
  


He takes a sip of his coffee and smiles. “We gotta talk about it sometime, Tess. And I hate when things are like this between us.”  
  


They look at each other – both of them waiting for the other to go first. A microcosm of their relationship in a single moment.  
  


“I acted like an asshole.” His eyes flick all over her, running up and down. “I’m sorry.”  
  


_I’m reading his body language while watching him read my body language_ , she thinks, almost wanting to laugh. _Christ, we’re a pair._  
  


“You did,” she agrees, removing the cup lid and blowing gently into the hot liquid. “Why, though? Were you drunker than I realized?”  
  


His hat hits the table, and he runs his hands through his hair.  
  


“Seeing you flirt with him made me feel shitty.”  
  


This sentence would never have passed the lips of Scott Moir a few years ago. And not just because the two of them weren’t – whatever it is they are right now – then.  
  


No, that sentence would have been left unspoken because a few years ago, Scott Moir would never have admitted vulnerability so baldly, so openly.  
  


“But, I wasn’t drunk,” he adds, half-smiling again. “Just jealous.”  
  


A petty, awful part of her thinks if there was some large, comprehensive balance sheet of jealousy in their relationship, he’d trail her by a wide margin, and maybe – just maybe – this role reversal could be character-building for him.  
  


Because the fact is, if you’ve met Scott one time or a million, one thing is clear. He has one mode at all times – affectionate flirt. To be fair, he’s an equal-opportunity flirt – he flirts like other people blink. Instinctually and repeatedly. She loves it about him, but it has also wounded her in the past, too.  
  


“I would never hurt you intentionally,” she says, watching him carefully. “Ever, Scott.”  
  


And then, “And, I’m sorry if I did hurt you.”  
  


Her chest aches at the tightness around his mouth right now, the stiff set of his shoulders.  
  


He doesn’t say anything, just picks up his hat and begins bending the brim just so, a telltale sign he’s uncomfortable.  
  


“It was sort of a through-the-looking-glass moment,” he says quietly after a few seconds. “Of what it would be like if at the end of this, we don’t…if we aren’t…” He doesn’t finish his sentence – just turns to stare out the window.  
  


Her instinct is to reach for his hand. To avoid telling him about her own through-the-looking-glass moment.  
  


“It scared me a little bit,” she says instead, forcing herself to look directly at him until he meets her eyes again. “I felt like maybe it was a preview of how it would be…if we were…if we decide to try this in a few months.”  
  


Sitting back in his chair, he chews the inside of his bottom lip, his eyes fixed on her.  
  


She takes a deep breath and keeps going, determined to say it all.  
  


“I don’t want us to be like that. I don’t want to play games anymore – and I know I’m part of the problem there, too. Sometimes, I’m afraid that’s our default setting, though – no matter how much therapy we do. That we’re not going to be able to re-program us after all…we’ll just be…I don’t know…better than average at listening and affirmation strategies and grounding techniques and…”  
  


She looks at the table, her heart beginning to race. Suddenly, the smell of coffee is overpowering, and she feels slightly sick.  
  


They sit in silence for what feels like a long time.  
  


“Tessa.”  
  


Their eyes meet, and her stomach flips at his expression.   
  


He looks exasperated. He looks faintly amused. He looks like every morning for the next 50 years, if she’s being brutally honest with herself.  
  


“I fucked up. And, I’m sorry. I’m going to try really hard not to make that same mistake again.” He takes a drink of his coffee and then exhales. “But, I _am_ going to fuck up. You’re going to fuck up, although probably less than me. Because that’s real life.”  
  


He lifts her hand from the table and flips it over, and rubs the inside of her wrist with his thumb.  
  


“And every time I fuck up, I promise you I’m going to apologize, that I’ll work my ass off to make it better, and then I’ll figure out how to not to do it again.”  
  


He pauses, and flips her hand back over, laying his on top and squeezing hers gently.    
  


“That’s not a failure to re-program, kiddo. That’s just loving someone enough to keep trying.”  
  


********************************************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish y'all a very happy weekend! If you liked it, if you hated it, if hit you squarely with a 'meh,' come talk with me in the comments. Love each of you any which way.


	9. In the morning light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the month after Korea, Tessa and Scott confront what comes next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's possible I've taken way too damn long to finish this chapter and no one cares anymore. But! I wrote it, so up it goes into the void. 
> 
> I'm giving you some fluff here. Quite a bit of fluff. More fluff than I meant to, honestly. You're welcome, I think?
> 
> I don't want you to get lulled into false security, though, ok? There are sign posts in this chapter, and not all of them are sunshine and butterflies. Fair warning for the next two chapters, in particular.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply...don't read this at work. You're welcome for that, too. :)
> 
> Quick addition on the title: I struggled with a name for this chapter. But, I shared my thought process with why I ultimately chose "In the morning light" in the comments with a reader, and then I thought...damn it. I should have put that in the notes. LOL. So here's the skinny. When the light of a new day breaks, the shine it casts usually illuminates the beautiful...but it also exposes the ugly. Everything after Korea is a brand new morning of their lives. And to tell the story I want to tell is to show both. 
> 
> Love y'all...it's been a hell of a good time sharing this little exercise in creativity with you. Thanks for sticking with me. Hope you'll stay until the end.

_February 2018 – Seoul airport  
  
_

“The only thing better than this is sex.” The soft whir of the chair’s mechanical massage fingers digging simultaneously into Scott’s upper and lower back are like a full-body lullaby.  
  


“Or winning a gold medal,” Tessa’s voice is barely audible in the airport relaxation lounge where they’re killing an hour before their morning flight home.  
  


She shifts in her massage chair, giving the fingers better access to her lower back, and drops her voice even lower. “Or four.”  
  


Silently, they fist bump.  
  


He moves to squeeze the back of her neck, before stopping abruptly. In the corner of the room, a guy is casually holding his phone in their direction. A familiar knot of tension forms in his gut.  
  


“I want to marry this chair,” Tessa murmurs, eyes now closed, blissfully unaware they’re almost certainly being filmed. “How do we think it feels about Canadian citizenship?”  
  


_I think I’m jealous of a massage chair.  
  
_

“I’m so sorry to bother you.”  
  


Unsurprisingly, the sharp, nasal voice doesn’t sound very sorry at all.  
  


A woman in her late 50s hovers between them wearing an expectant smile, her phone clutched in her hand.  
  


“Could I get a picture with the two of you? You’re both _so_ pretty in person…I just can’t get over it!”  
  


He tries to laugh good-naturedly, while out of the corner of his eye, he watches Tessa’s formerly relaxed face morph into hyper-alert media readiness in a matter of seconds.  
  


“Sure, no problem.” He stands and extends his hand, already mourning the loss of the magical massage fingers. “I’m Scott. Very nice to meet you…?” His voice trails off as he waits for her name.  
  


“Phyllis. Phyllis Carlisle.” She shakes his hand, beaming. “This is such a thrill to meet you both! You were just breathtaking this week.” Looking over her shoulder irritably, she barks, “Don! Come here, and take our photo.”  
  


A mildly embarrassed-looking man around the same age trudges over and takes the cell phone from Phyllis’ outstretched grasp.  
  


“And look at you!” She turns her attention to Tessa. “Could you be more precious?!”  
  


Thanking Phyllis, they both shuffle around so that she’s positioned between them, the three of them smiling in posed silence.  
 

“Now, could I get one of just the two of you?” Phyllis snatches the phone from her husband and motions them to move together.  
  


Leaning toward Tessa, Scott automatically rests one hand in between her shoulder blades.  
  


“Squeeze in some for me...”  
  


Scott moves his face a couple inches closer and pulls Tessa into him slightly.  
  


“A little more,” the older woman coaxes again, a glint in her eye.  
  


Tessa angles her head fractionally toward his.  
  


“Just a tiny bit closer?”  
  


_How about I slip her the tongue for you, Phyllis? Would that be close enough?  
  
_

They both stand perfectly still.  
  


Accepting defeat, Phyllis snaps a few shots and then admires her handiwork on her phone. “Perfect! My God but your babies are going to be gorgeous!”  
  


Tessa smiles woodenly at a fixed point across the room.  
  


“Excuse me…are you Scott Moir and Tessa Virtue?”  
  


A mother and two teenaged girls are now standing astride their group, all three gripping their cell phones like swords poised for battle. Behind them, a family of five is whispering excitedly and pointing. The guy in the corner is still filming.  
  


“Hi there,” Scott says, smiling as genuinely as possible. He hears one of the teens ask Tessa for a photo. (“You’re my favorite skater ever! Oh my God. Seriously, OH MY GOD. My Insta is gonna be insane!”)  
  


The mother gives him a conspiratorial look, running her eyes up and down his body with all the subtlety of a bitch slap to the face with a dead fish.  
  


“I’d love to get a picture with you,” she purrs, moving in to press her cheek to his and lifting her cell phone high in the air. Her breath is oppressively warm near his face, her hand resting more on his upper ass than his lower back. The smile she wears is triumphant.  
  


In the background, the unmistakable sound of their abandoned massage chairs drones on, the mechanical fingers kneading futilely into empty space.  
  


*******************************************  
  


_Late March 2018 – London, Ontario  
  
_

“Tess! Where’s your corkscrew?” Rummaging through her utensils drawer, Scott has to yell to be heard over the distant roar of running bath water.  
  


For the first time in a week, both of them are free of family/friend/work obligations on the same night, so he’d asked her to do dinner before they leave for Japan in two days.  
  


Mostly, though, he’d wanted to initiate The Talk. They one they both promised to have after Korea.  
  


The one they haven’t had yet.  
  


To be fair, the weeks since Pyeongchang have been insane – a chaotic mix of meetings, appearances, learning a new exhibition program, trying to see their families and friends, and desperately trying to catch up on sleep.  
  


So, when they said they weren’t dating (or gave half answers to this effect) to Ellen and every other interviewer who’s asked? Technically, no lies were told. They aren’t together, strictly speaking. But maybe they could be after tonight?  
  


“What, Scott?” Her discombobulated shout from the direction of her bedroom jerks him out of his anxiety. “I can’t hear you.”  
  


Walking into her room, he stops in the middle and tries again. “Where’s your corkscrew, T?”  
  


“Where’s my what? Just crack the bathroom door.”  
  


He pushes it open a few inches, as curls of trapped steam and the smell of lavender and lemon seep out.  
  


Facing away from him, her dark hair is pulled into a messy bun, a few errant strands resting on her shoulders. Drops of water trace lazy lines down her back, the tops of her muscular thighs just visible above the bath.  
  


“Where’s your corkscrew?” His voice breaks slightly like a 13-year-old who’s been caught watching a dirty movie with his hand down his pants.  
  


Which makes him feel ridiculous, because it’s not like he hasn’t seen her naked before. He saw her mostly naked last month.  
  


(But…he’s not sure that time even counts? Between the final round of media interviews and the medal ceremony for their individual skate, they’d tumbled into his room with 20 minutes to spare and just feverishly gone at each other. He couldn’t even really remember it clearly, his brain had been so muddled with adrenaline, heady relief, her smell and just blinding, all-consuming happiness. He’s not even certain he’d fully taken off his pants…or hers for that matter.)  
  


“It should be in the drawer to the left of the kitchen sink.” She cups her hands in the water and bends forward to rinse her face.  
  


After a few seconds of silence, Tessa glances over her shoulder, her mouth quirking slightly, before reaching for the soap. It’s like she knows he’s staring…but she’s letting him look.  
  


The muscles in her back shift hypnotically as another rivulet of water runs slowly down the side of her breast to the dip of her waist.  
  


“I’ll go look for it again,” Scott croaks and walks quickly back to the kitchen. He adjusts the crotch of his sweat pants, but tries not to touch himself too much in the process to avoid making the situation worse.  
  


_Christ, what does she have the heat set on in here? It’s hot as hell_.  
  


He takes off his hoodie and pulls at the long-sleeve t-shirt underneath that’s begun to stick to him slightly.  
  


Distracting himself, Scott turns the TV to a home design show they both like and then begins searching the drawer again for the missing corkscrew.   
  


“You’re not still looking?” she teases a few minutes later, her arm brushing his as she steps into the kitchen.  
  


The fact that she’s a goddamn smoke show in just a pair of yoga pants and a tank top, her hair loose and wild from the humidity of the bath, seems extremely unfair to all women everywhere.  
  


“It’s not in there, Tess,” he assures her, stepping aside as she begins to sift through the kitchen utensils drawer.  
  


“Mmhmm.” She moves spatulas, tongs and serving spoons around, leaning forward slightly to run her hand along the back of the drawer.  
  


“Here’s the thing, Scott Moir,” she says, pulling a few items out on the counter to help thin the herd a bit. “Remember Nationals 2010 when you were convinced you’d left your new headphones on the bus? And you nearly cried?”  
  


“You love bringing this story up.”  
  


“And then I found them in your skate bag – WHERE I TOLD YOU TO LOOK IN THE FIRST PLACE – buried in the crotch of some dirty boxer shorts?”  
  


“If I remember correctly, you carried them with two fingers by the cord to the women’s changing room and bathed them in hand sanitizer.” He starts to laugh at the memory of her expression as she had held the offending headphones. “Your face looked like you were holding a solid, manifested fart.”  
  


Tessa laughs and flips him off with both hands, which makes him laugh harder.  
  


“All I’m saying…” she continues, resuming her search of the clutter. “…is that you tend to get impatient when you’re trying to find something, and--”  
  


Scott opens his mouth to interrupt her, before he closes it abruptly.  
  


The missing wine opener is now dangling from her fingers, a small, knowing smile on her lips.  
  


“And,” she repeats, a little softer this time, holding the corkscrew out to him, “more often than not, the thing you’re looking for is right in front of you the whole time.”  
  


***********************************  
  


They recline on the couch after dinner, killing the last of the wine while they watch first-time home-buyers fake bicker about a house they’re not really going to buy.  
  


Well, Tessa seems to be watching at least.  
  


Scott, on the other hand, is trying and failing to initiate a perfect opening sentence of The Talk. The main problem is that everything he formulates in his head sounds hopelessly wrong.  
  


Also complicating things – she smells so good. And he can see the outline of her nipples in that tank top.  
  


“Want to watch something on Netflix instead?” she asks, bringing him back to the moment. Raising her arms and stretching languidly, she leans over his lap to grab the remote, the neckline of her tank top falling open. Her pale, plum-like breasts wink at him cheekily, unencumbered by a bra.  
  


When his eyes finally slide up to hers, she lays the remote down and raises an eyebrow.  
  


“What are you thinking right now?”  
  


He watches her intently for a minute, thinking furiously about how to respond.   
  


_To hell with it. Perfect first sentences are overrated.  
  
_

“I’m thinking you’re so fucking pretty, it’s physically painful,” he says, looking her directly in the eye. “I’m thinking I want to take your tank top off with my teeth. I’m thinking I’ve wanted to know what’s going on in your head so badly lately, I may actually be going insane.”  
  


A deep breath. And then an exhale.  
  


More silence.  
  


“We’re finally going to DTR,” she mutters, almost to herself.  
  


“DT-what?” His mind immediately goes someplace filthy.  
  


“We need more wine.”  
  


Scott stares blankly at her retreating form, before she returns with another bottle of red wine and the corkscrew.  
  
  
Wordlessly, she hands him the bottle and the opener and sits down cross-legged on the couch, her body angled toward his.  
  


“DTR means Define The Relationship,” she says, as he opens the bottle and fills their glasses. “When we were in Michigan, Tanith and Meryl would always talk about wanting to DTR with whoever they were fooling around with because it’s like the gateway to girlfriend-dom.”  
  


Her face flushes. “Not that I’m saying you want me to be your girlfriend.”  
  


They stare at each other. She takes a long gulp of wine.  
  


He lowers his gaze to their feet, his heart rate picking up. “One night a million years ago, I told you I only wanted to do what you wanted to do.” Looking back up, he searches her face. “Do you remember which night I mean?”  
  


She goes completely still, her hand clenched around her glass.  
  


“Yes.” Her voice is so quiet.  
  


“And, do you remember what you said?” His heart begins to hammer wildly now. In a minute or less, the question he’s been obsessing over for the past three years will be answered.  
  


“Yes,” she repeats, her eyes fixed on his. “I remember.”  
  


“That’s what I want.” He licks his lips, his throat dry and rough despite the wine. “I want everything with you, Tess.”  
  


The phrase ‘time stood still’ has never meant more to Scott than it does in this moment. And, he’s competed at three Olympic Games.  
  


Wordlessly, she carefully sets her mostly full wine glass onto the end table, before reaching for his too.  
  


He lives and dies a thousand times before she covers the distance between them and climbs in his lap, wrapping her arms and legs around him like a koala bear, her face in his neck. They sit like that for a few taut moments, his stomach bottoming out like he just flung himself backwards and blindfolded off a cliff.  
  


“Me too.” Tessa’s words are muffled into his skin, her warm, wet breath making the hairs on his arms and legs stand up. “But I need you to hear me out on a few things.”  
  


He nods dazedly and brushes a few strands of hair back from her face as she leans back to look at him.  
  


Biting the inside of her lip, she disentangles herself from his lap and stands up.  
  


“We have to take this slow.” She begins to pace around the living room. “For as long as we’ve known each other, and for everything we mean to one another, we’ve never tried this before. Not for real. I refuse to rush it because suddenly we can.  
  


“I get it,” he says, keeping his voice calm and level. “I’m not afraid of slow.”  
  


She stops pacing and meets his eyes. “That’s only the first thing that scares the shit out of me.”  
  


“Ok.” Scott blows out a breath, a wave of anxiety crashing over him as she stops pacing and sits on the couch again, turning her body toward his. “Lay it on me.”  
  


“I’m afraid of us going public.” She brushes angrily at the tears that have begun to pool above her lower lashes. “Truthfully, I’m afraid of what we’ve already become. We’re a thing now, Scott…more than we ever were after Sochi. I know you let Cara handle most of your stuff on social media, but Jesus Christ, it’s cuckoo for cocoa puffs out there. We’ll never have true privacy again – or at least not for a very long time. Every look, every interaction, every single thing we do – with each other or with anyone else – it’s all up for public discussion and dissection. I’m terrified of trying to do this with you under those circumstances. Completely terrified.”  
  


“And, what really sucks?” Tessa continues, starting to cry harder now. “It’s all my fault. I made us into a commodity before Sochi. I pushed you – I convinced you it would help us win. And then there was no going back. It may have been quieter while we were training for Korea, but now? This is our reality. We have obligations…promoting us – promoting our brand – is part of the job. But where does that leave our relationship? How are we supposed to protect this?”  
  


“Not to mention,” she adds, jerkily twisting the silver ring on her middle finger, “that the second word gets out that we do actually have ‘heart eyes’ for each other--”  
  


His look of total confusion makes her snort through her tears. “That’s what people say about us online – that we have emoji heart eyes when we look at each other. Anyway – the point is, everything we’ve worked so hard for – all of the years of sacrifice and effort – it’ll be a fucking side note. The less interesting part of our story. Which wouldn’t be the case if I hadn’t…” She buries her face in her hands.  
  


“I don’t blame you, T. You know that.” And he truly doesn’t. He knows every decision they’ve made about how and when to leverage their relationship, they made together. “We can keep us completely private, if that’s what you want. You know I’m not going to argue. I don’t care. I just want to be with you. So, however we need to do that to make you happiest, I’ll do it.”  
  


He reaches for her hand, holding it firmly and rubbing circles on her skin with his thumb.  
  


“I’m afraid you’ll get bored.” The words sound ripped from her – raw and vulnerable. “That after the high of winning and touring and whatever else we do finally dies down – after it really sinks in that we’re never going to compete again, which honestly, Scott, we’ve never faced, not really – you’ll look up and feel trapped…or just…over it. Over me.”  
  


He lifts their joined hands and places her palm over his heart, holding it in place. His other hand grasps her chin, forcing her to look directly at him.  
  


“Long after the Tessa and Scott parade is over,” he says, his voice quiet but clear, “I will still love and want you as much as I do right now.”  
  


He holds her gaze, watching her chew on her top lip in an effort to stop crying. “As much as I did in Beijing when we decided to chase gold one more time. As much as I did in your hotel room in Sochi when everything seemed too broken to fix. As much as I did that night in Canton when I abused my spare key and first crawled into your bed.”   
  


Scott lifts her palm from his chest and kisses the center of it.  
  


“Pick any day since I was 17 years old, and when I’m 87 years old, I will still want you that much, kiddo. You will always be the best choice I ever made.”  
  


Taking her hand back, Tessa wipes her face and takes a shuddering breath. Then, she leans in and kisses him, both of their lips salty from her tears.  
  


“I love you,” she says quietly against his mouth. “Now take me to bed.”  
  


********************************  
  
The clock reads 5:03 a.m. when Scott wakes, his legs sweaty from being intertwined with hers. Rolling to his side and swinging himself off the bed, he pads silently to the kitchen.  
  


He fills a glass with cold water from the refrigerator and guzzles it down in one shot, before re-filling it and heading back down the hall. In the doorway to Tessa’s room, he stops to watch her sleep – curled up in the fetal position, her hair fanned out in a dark mass over the white pillowcase.  
  


Climbing back into bed, he sets the glass of water on the nightstand and settles on his side facing her.  
  


“What time is it?” she murmurs, eyes still closed. Her foot brushes up and down his calf, which sends a shot straight to his groin.  
  


“It’s early…go back to sleep.” Tracing the ridge of her cheekbone with his thumb, he kisses her forehead.  
  


Her eyes snap open, and like a total sucker, he looks straight into them.  
  


“Over the past ten years,” she says, her gaze narrowing thoughtfully, “how much morning sex do you think we’ve missed out on?”  
  


And then after a beat, she adds, “With each other.”  
  


“You got jokes, huh?” He rolls over on top of her, pinning her to the mattress and biting the space between her shoulder and neck gently.  
  


Her hips push instinctively up into his. “Pass me the glass of water.”  
  


“I don’t care about your morning breath, Tess.”  
  


“No kissing on the mouth then.”  
  


“What about here?” he teases, sliding down to put his face level with her bare breasts. “Is kissing allowed here?” Running the flat of his tongue around one nipple, he sucks it into his mouth, kneading her other breast gently.  
  


“Unghhhh.” She rakes one hand through his hair and tugs him closer.  
  


“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” He gives the other nipple a few lazy sucks before working his way between her knees, and pinching her lightly on the inside of one thigh.  
  


“How about here?” Tessa’s back arches off the bed, as he runs one hand up her leg, letting his fingers part her and dip inside. “Can I kiss here too?”  
  


“It’s my favorite.” She makes a pained, desperate sound as he pushes her knees open into a butterfly position and pins them to the bed.  
  


Much later, he rolls her on her side, peppering the exposed part of her neck and collarbone with open-mouthed kisses. Laying behind her, he wraps one arm around her chest and the other around her hip – the big spoon to her little spoon.  
  


“You better not be cuddling me right now,” she pants, reaching back to cup him gently in her palm, and then squeezing along his length not so gently.  
  


In answer, he lifts her top leg and bends it at the knee slightly, running his nose along the crease behind her ear. And then he’s pushing inside her, soaking in her warmth and the smell of her skin.  
  


“Touch yourself,” he rasps in her ear after a while, concentrating on keeping the slow steady rhythm they’ve created. “Fuck, you feel good, Tess.”  
  


As she rubs small circles between her legs, she begins to move her hips backwards to meet him, basically riding him on her side.  
  


_Pleaseletherbeclosepleaseletherbeclosepleaseletherbeclose_ , he thinks, forcing himself to visualize dirty toilets, dead puppies and puss-filled zits.  
  


“I’m coming,” she breathes a few seconds later, and as she clenches around him, he presses his face to the back of her neck and immediately lets go too.  
  


They lay panting and quiet for a couple of minutes, still spooning with his nose buried in her hair. Her hand snakes out from underneath them, and her fingers lace with his.    
  


In this moment, every morning he’s missed with her – every time one of them left in the dead of night, choking on pride or hurt or shame – feels not just like a waste, but like a wrong he has to right.  
  


Finally, she wiggles out of his arms and reaches for the glass of water on the nightstand, holding it carefully as she scoots herself up to sit against the headboard.   
  


As they stare at each other in the still morning silence, she raises the glass slightly in a salutation, her face breaking into a grin. His heart constricts in the best worst way.  
  


“To making up for lost mornings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to chat with you...so leave me a note if you're inclined. Love y'all a million.


	10. Great Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chase is sometimes easier than the catch. Please have your angst umbrella ready, with more in the 10-day forecast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks the first time in this fic that I'm venturing beyond the confines of (mostly) established history. So, I guess I should start there with a disclaimer? 
> 
> From here on out, we're in the future. So, fair warning: I'm going to tell the story that's been germinating in my brain since May, even if it doesn't track exactly with the twists and turns of the Real Lives of Real People Scott and Tessa over the next few months. If Scott suddenly turns up with some knock-off Tessa who's wearing jeans with rhinestones on the ass and the vacant eyes of a stuffed animal, we're forging on anyway. If Tessa turns up with some dude whose face is immensely punchable and whose douche hairdo is currently setting feminism back 30 years, we're forging on anyway. 
> 
> There isn't really a smooth transition from those last two sentences, so let's just move to this new chapter, yeah? 
> 
> This latest installment was a lot of fun to write. Some chapters are fun to create and some are only fun when they're done. This one was both. 
> 
> And, what you're about to read sets the stage for the final two chapters (or three...I'm still mapping out the last 1000 words) of the fic...which I AM SO EXCITED ABOUT. There will be Chiddy! There will be Jordan! Maybe Danny if I can figure that out! There will be a wedding (no comment on whose)! It's gonna be fun.
> 
> I'm more than 20k words into this story...which is just WILD. I was going to do two chapters originally...Cliff-jumping and Something Blue. And then I realized how fun these two people are to write. And y'all were so lovely. 
> 
> So, thanks for sticking around. For leaving me such thoughtful, constructive feedback. For just being generally kick-ass friends on the internet. Here's to the last few chapters!

_April 2018 – Halifax, Nova Scotia_

Tessa’s head is lowered against the chill damp breeze as she crosses the street back to the hotel, her stomach growling for the food hanging from her wrist. Practice for the Halifax show, the first stop on the Stars on Ice Canada tour, ended an hour ago, and all she can think about now is food, a bath and PJs in her hotel room for the remainder of the evening.  
  


Making her way through the lobby, she joins the cluster of people waiting in the elevator bank, lowering her eyes and hoping to remain anonymous in the crowd.  
  


Two elevator cars arrive nearly at the same time, and Tessa is relieved to see most in the queue shuffle onto the first, leaving just Tessa and one girl in her late teens to board the second when it dings a few moments later.  
  


Silently, they each push their floor button and stand on opposite sides of the car, both staring at their phones. As they ascend, the girl tentatively cuts her eyes several times in Tessa’s direction, seeming to waver on the edge of speech.  
  


When the elevator opens, the girl is almost out of the car before she turns, her hand holding the door in place.  
  


“I just wanted to say that you’re an amazing athlete.” She doesn’t quite meet Tessa’s eye, her voice just above a whisper. “And, you’re so nice. I mean…” Words trailing away, she looks flustered. “I don’t know you obviously, but, um, you’re nice to your fans online. Even though some of them are…uh…pretty intense. So. Yeah. I just…um…think you’re awesome.”  
  


Lifting her hand from the door, she scurries off, face flushed but looking rather proud of herself.  
  


“Thank you so much,” Tessa calls behind her as the door shuts. “I really appreciate it!”  
  


She smiles the rest of the way back to her room.   
  


****************************  
  


A cold hand grazes Tessa’s bare back as the blow-dryer roars in her ears, tickling the skin above her pajama pants.  
  


“Shit!” she yelps, hitting the off button and spinning around in one fluid motion.  
  


Scott laughs as he backs up, his hands in the air like she’s pointing a gun at him and not a hotel blow-dryer.  
  


“Easy…I called your name three times, I swear.”  
  


When she mutters darkly, he moves closer, gathering her half-wet hair into a ponytail and kissing the side of her neck. “Who else would it have been?” His lips graze against her pulse, and he sucks gently before scraping his teeth against the delicate skin there. “I’m the only one with a key to your room.”  
  


“A privilege I’m reconsidering right now.”  
  


“You’d break our decade-long streak of sharing hotel keys?” Scott looks scandalized. “Harsh, T. Hurtful, even.”  
  


Regardless of the state of their relationship over the years, they had always swapped spare hotel room keys. It started when they were young – almost as an emergency precaution. And then…they just never stopped, even if they didn’t use them. There was a months-long period in 2009 where she was barely speaking to him off the ice. Yet, as soon as they checked in at the front desk at competition after competition that year, they’d wordlessly found each other and exchanged keys. Four years later, Scott had passed her his key in the hotel lobby at Nationals as they waited on the elevator…right in front Cassandra, who was in town to watch him skate. He hadn’t even tried to hide it.  
  


_God, we were assholes_ , she thinks, half-amused, half-ashamed.  
  


“Why are you making that face?” he asks, leaning in again and trailing kisses down her jaw.  
  


“I was remembering how your ex-girlfriend looked when you gave me your hotel key right in front of her that year at nationals. I’m still confused as to why you didn’t just slip it into my bag? I bet she ripped you a new one once you were alone.”  
  


“I didn’t really care what she thought,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing hers lightly. “Which is shitty, but true. I wasn’t a very good boyfriend to her or anyone else back then.” His lips find the divot under her bottom lip. “I’m a good boyfriend now though, right? A good secret boyfriend?”  
  


She hums in response and inhales him as he kisses each corner of her mouth. The smell of him is just pure pheromones– the clean, familiar scent of him plus soap, cinnamon gum and…whiskey? He slants his mouth against hers and runs his tongue along the seam of her lips once, before pushing in gently.  
  


“You taste like whiskey.” Pulling back, she studies him, noticing his glassy eyes for the first time. “A little early in the evening for the hard stuff, no?”  
  


Groaning, his chin drops to his chest, before he peers up at her through his eyelashes, looking equal parts sheepish and mischievous. Classic Scott Moir.  
  


“While I was waiting for the elevator, a group of people begged me to take shots with them in the bar downstairs. They started singing ‘Blow at High Dough’ until I gave in,” He runs his hands up and down her bare arms soothingly. “I did it for Canada, Tess.”  
  


Threading her fingers through his hair, she holds his face in her hands.  
  


“You’re going to be walking sideways by the first intermission tonight.”  
  


“You sure you don’t want to join us? Come keep me out of trouble?”  
  


Scott, Patrick and a few other skaters from the Stars on Ice Canada tour are going to a local pub to watch the Leafs in game 7 of the playoffs. When they’d discussed it at lunch, she did at least try to appear somewhat torn. The truth is, after three straight nights with the cast, being inundated for photos and conversation by drunk fans at a crowded bar all night sounds like her own little corner of hell.  
  


Still cradling his face, she pats one cheek lightly, before letting her tongue slide against his again when the smell of his cinnamon gum is too good to pass up. Both of his hands drop from her back to palm her ass, pulling her against him.  
  


“Go have fun,” she murmurs against his mouth, one hand dragging lazily across the ridges of his stomach and then up to his ribs. “I’ll cheer the Leafs on from here.”  
  


“Can I stay with you tonight after the game?” He leans back slightly to give her his best puppy dog eyes.  
  


“Go have fun,” she repeats, swatting his ass playfully. “And if you miss me too much later, you can abuse your spare key.”  
  


*****************************  
  


She sees the Instagram story a little after 7 the next morning, after squinting bleary-eyed at her phone for a minute or two, trying to make sense of the dozens of notifications and texts stacked on her locked screen.  
  


In it, Scott slow dances cheek-to-cheek with a pretty petite blonde in a crowded pub, his arms curling intimately around her neck and shoulders. Leaning against her heavily as they dance, he sings along in her ear with the live band, his eyes closed. Clearly and unequivocally, Tessa can tell he’s shitfaced drunk. When they both let go of each other, the woman turns to look at the cell phone camera, her smile incredulous, while Scott blinks blearily at the camera.  
  


As if in some kind of strange alternate universe, she keeps waiting to feel angry or anxious or jealous. But, she doesn’t. At least not yet.  
  


Instead, all she can feel initially is pure, unadulterated relief. _Thank God no one knows for sure about us_ , she thinks as she scrolls through the endless re-posts and comments. Without question, this would be exponentially worse if people knew.  
  


_Poor Tessa!  
  
_

_Girl, he looks single to me…get it!  
  
_

_I bet Tessa is pissed…look at his slutty self.  
  
_

_Scott and Tessa are completely fake and always have been…they just want everyone to think they’re fucking to sell themselves.  
  
_

_The same shit happens every four years with them, and we fall for it.  
  
_

_Scott and this ho are so disrespectful.  
  
_

_I’m heartbroken for Tessa.  
  
_

Etcetera Infinitum.  
  


All at once, a sudden, very unwelcomed realization hits her, and she rolls on her back, tossing her phone aside and pressing the heels of her palms over her eyes.  
  


_Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.  
  
_

Yesterday, they promised the Stars on Ice social media coordinator they’d do a Facebook Live chat at this morning’s practice.  
  


_Perfect. Scott gets sloppy as hell at bar last night – just in time to answer questions from fans on live video. Fan-fucking-tastic.  
  
_

The thing is, rationally, she knows exactly what happened last night, and there isn’t anything scandalous about it. People love Scott. Women love Scott, in particular. Tessa can’t count the number of times over the years that she’s watched him make a fan’s night by dancing with them.  
  


She also reminds herself that, unlike any other point in their relationship, she knows how he feels about her now – how he feels about them.  Not for a single second does she entertain the idea that he’s shacked up with the blonde in his hotel room.  
  


But, after all the discussions they’ve had about controlling the narrative, about keeping the spotlight away from their personal lives…did he have to be so…extra last night? Especially when he knew he was being filmed?  
  


_Was it absolutely fucking necessary to nuzzle her neck? Or was that part of the Scott Moir fan experience too?  
  
_

Disgruntled, she swings her legs off the bed and picks up her phone, her stomach clenching at the new notifications crowding the screen.  
  


When it suddenly begins to ring in her hand, the noise splinters the air like the cracking of a whip, and the phone nearly slides out of her hand.  Scott’s sweet grin flashes up at her – a candid photo she took before their most recent trip to Japan. The morning after they promised to do everything possible to keep the public focus on their skating. To fiercely protect their relationship no matter what.  
  


Ignoring his call, she tosses the phone into her tote bag and trudges to the bathroom. Practice begins in less than hour.  
  


*************************************  
  
“Let’s drive to the beach and talk this out.” Scott’s leans against her hotel room door a few hours after rehearsal ends, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a small cooler in his hand. “You’re happier closer to the water.”  
  


_People who think Scott Moir is all heart and no head are such fools_ , she thinks, slipping on her jacket and grabbing her room key and bag.    
  


Today’s awkward Stars on Ice practice was one for the history books, and given all of the shit they’ve been through in 20 years, that’s saying something.  
  


Hungover and clearly ashamed of himself, Scott had been sullen and withdrawn. Tessa had retreated, too – unable to fully repress her frustration, both at him for all the obvious reasons and at the world for being so goddamn nosy all the time.  
 

Crisis had been blessedly averted during the Facebook Live session, but he had been twitchy and visibly uncomfortable the entire time, leaving Tessa to carry most of the burden of conversation, which only made her more irritated with him. Which, then in turn only increased his anxiety and shame.  
  


Suffice it to say, they both needed the calming effects of the ocean at this point.  
  


After sneaking out a side entrance of the hotel to avoid the crowded lobby, a half hour later, they park the truck Scott borrowed from one of the tour crew. Shoulders brushing, they carry two blankets, a cooler and the duffel bag down the rocky sand slope until they find a level spot.  
  


After laying out a blanket, and instructing her to sit, Scott starts unpacking the small cooler, which he’s stocked with some fruit, dark chocolate and a couple of bottles of local pear cider.  
  


Tessa watches him unpack this picnic without comment because even though her mouth is watering, she knows when she’s being worked, thank you very much.  
  


Passing her an open bottle of cider, he opens one for himself and takes a drink, turning to look at her.  
  


“Shit,” he says on an exhale. “I’m not even sure where to start.”  
  


She doesn’t respond, just takes a long sip from her bottle, pulling her jacket more securely around her.  
  


Taking off his hat, he rakes his hands through his hair. “So, the girl in the video came up to me for a photo and a dance, and you know I almost never say no to stuff like that…because it’s usually harmless, right?”  
  


He swallows nervously, and waits for her to say something. When she doesn’t, he exhales again. “But I should have last night. I was too drunk, and I knew it, T. I’ve...fuck, I’ve felt sick all day because I can’t stop thinking about how I would feel if the situation were reversed. I just…I swear to God, I wasn’t trying to hit on her.”  
  


He slides his hand a bit closer to hers on the blanket, stopping short of taking it in his. “You know that, right?”  
  


“I know you weren’t trying to hook up with her.” Her voice is neutral, as she breaks off a piece of dark chocolate and forces herself to chew.  
  


“I would hope so, Tess,” he says softly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. His thumb gently circles the hinge of her jaw before his hand drops back to his lap.  
  


She works her fingernail under the label of her cider bottle, peeling it off a little at a time as she stares out at the water. “You’re…that’s just who you are. Everyone is drawn to you, Scott. And I would never want to change you…I love how warm and affectionate you are with people.”  
  


Another pause.  
  


“Most of the time,” she amends.  
  


Their eyes meet, and she tries to smile at him, hoping to soften the blow of what she’s going to say next.  
  


“But sometimes…the flirting is a lot. Like last night. And, all I can really do is just grin and bear it, you know?” A deep breath, and then, “Because after all, it’s just you being you.”  
  


He visibly flinches, which makes her feel like shit. But it’s the truth.  
  


“We both say we don’t want our private lives on display,” she continues after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. “But then you do something like this that forces me on display with you – even if that isn’t your intent.”  
  


A muscle tenses in his jaw, and his voice flattens. “I guess I didn’t realize dancing with a fan for 49 seconds at a pub equals putting our private lives on display.”  
  


“Did you watch the video?” she asks, taking another drink of cider, letting the tart, acidic liquid slide down the bitter tightness of her throat before she continues. “Because the nuzzling and the singing with your mouth on her ear…just…Christ, Scott.”  
  


Drawing her knees to her chest, she folds her arms on their tops and rests her cheek there.  
  


“Your actions don’t happen in a vacuum,” she whispers, feeling as lonely as she’s felt in a very long time while sitting right next to him. “They affect me. And not just because we’re…we’re now an ‘us.’ Even if we’d decided to never be anything more than friends, to the world, we’d still be an ‘us.’”  
  


“Tess.” Warm fingertips gently cup the back of her neck and slide down the slope of her shoulder and bicep, stroking her forearm lightly until she finally lifts her face towards him.  
  


“I’m sorry.” The defensiveness from a few moments earlier has evaporated. Now, he just sounds tired and sad. “I don’t ever want to be some asshole you have to grin and bear.”  
  


“That’s not what I s--”  
  


“I know that’s not what you said,” he interrupts. “But that’s what I was last night. And, I won’t put us in that position again.”  
  


Scooting forward on the blanket, he inches toward her until their knees touch.  
  


“I want you to trust me…and not just to keep it in my pants.” He tries to smile when she snorts, taking her hand as her pinky slides between his middle and ring fingers. “I want you to trust that I’m in this for the long haul. I want you to trust me with us.”  
  


****************************************  
  
_Late August 2018 – Bayfield, Ontario (Tessa’s lake cottage)  
  
_

They bob gently on pool floats a few inches apart on the lake, one of Scott’s feet hooked around hers to keep them from drifting apart. The water is extraordinarily calm today - not another boat or person in sight. Much to Tessa’s delight, her closest neighbors just put their property on the market last month and haven’t visited in weeks, which means that this little cottage is one of the only places she has nearly absolute privacy.  
  


The late afternoon sun is stuck halfway behind a few scattered clouds, which, in her opinion, is the perfect light for reading on the water. She’s immersed in the third Cormoran Strike novel when she realizes Scott has said her name. Judging by his bemused expression, he’s said it a few times already.  
  


“What’s that?” she asks, her brain trying to sluggishly lurch its way to the present and out of a serial killer’s rundown apartment in London.  
  


“Your concentration level when you read is unbelievable.” He smiles at her from underneath his baseball cap, pushing the brim up slightly. “I’ll never get over it. You literally hear nothing when your head is buried in a book.”  
  


“It’s one of my more impressive bad habits,’ she says apologetically, laying it open face down on her chest. “Try me again.”  
  


“I asked if I already told you about my conversation with Chiddy last week…about him and Liz.”  
  


“Nothing’s wrong, right?” She feels slightly alarmed. Patrick is in a serious relationship Liz Putnam, who also skated competitively, and he’d seemed to be in a great place the last time Tessa had spoken to him a few weeks ago.  
  


“No, everything’s fine.” He flicks a bug off his float. “Better than fine. I think he’s going to propose soon.”  
  


“Wow,” she says, a little stunned. “Were you surprised? He just announced his retirement a few months ago, and he’s touring with us for most of the fall…and he and Liz are putting plans together for their skating school. I guess I thought he’d wait a bit?”  
  


“Nah, I’m not surprised.” Scott tilts the brim of his hat back down over his eyes, his voice determinedly casual. “They’ve been together a long time, and he’s ready to move on to the next phase and start a family. I get where he’s coming from.”  
  


Suddenly, she’s quite sure they’re no longer just talking about Patrick and Liz.  
  


_Is he implying he’s ready to get married???  
  
_

_Holy shit.  
  
_

_When we’ve been officially together for less than six months?  
  
_

_Hadn’t he said he wasn’t afraid of slow???  
  
_

_Is “engagement” synonymous with “slow” to him???  
  
_

_Holy, holiest of shits.  
  
_

“He wanted my opinion on rings,” he adds proudly, which would be adorable if she weren’t frantically trying to extinguish the forest fire of anxiety that’s erupted in her brain.  
  


“Oh yeah?” Her attempt at light and breezy feels off, so she tries teasing instead. “Had no idea that was in your repertoire, Moir. So, what was your advice?”  
  


He sits up and turns his hat backwards, lowering his legs into the water and straddling the float between his knees.  
  


“Liz made it easy on him,” he says earnestly. “She’d already sent him photos of three different rings she liked, all that have diamonds with the same four Cs. So really all he had to do was choose as setting.”  
  


_The four Cs?  
  
_

_The fuck?  
  
_

She feels like she’s probably blinking a lot right now.  
  


“That is easier, for sure,” she croaks, avoiding his eyes by sitting up and adjusting her bikini top. “Which one did Patrick choose?”  
  


“We both liked the simplest setting…it showcases the center stone the best.”  
  


As Tessa desperately tries to think of subtle transition from this topic, he paddles toward her, one of the corners of his mouth turned up in a half-smile.  
  


“I had fun helping him, actually,” he says, almost shyly, his foot grazing hers under the water. “Got my wheels turning.”  
  


Two seconds of silence turns into five, and she still can’t think of how to respond.  
  


Scott clears his throat. “I can feel your brain working, T. I’m not asking you to marry me right now, eh?”  
  


The way he tries so hard to sound flippant and funny is gut-wrenching.  
  


“I know,” she says quickly this time. “I know you aren’t.”  
  


Clearly flustered, she shifts on her float slightly, and her paperback novel nearly slides in the water before she grabs it just in time. When their eyes meet, his expression is deflated. Disappointed.  
  


“It’s just…we’re not even telling people yet about us. I mean, except for our families, obviously.” She searches his face for some sign of understanding, some semblance of agreement that THIS TOPIC DOESN’T QUALIFY AS TAKING IT SLOW.  
  


He doesn’t speak for a minute, his eyes on his hands, as he picks at one of his cuticles.  
  


“I’m ready to tell our friends,” he says finally, his voice quiet. “We’re about to go on tour with most of them for two months straight, and I don’t want to spend that time hiding what most of them already suspect. If you’re not ready to tell the world, ok. But, let’s take the first baby step and tell the people who care about us.”  
  


But, as she turns his words over in her head, she can’t help but worry. Because, the minute they go on the record about their relationship, their friends will have to carry their secret too. So, to Tessa, telling them but asking them to keep it quiet is essentially asking them to lie when they’re asked – which they will be. By press and fans alike. It’s one thing for her and Scott to lie, but expecting their friends to lie, too?  
  


When she repeats these thoughts out loud to him, though, he just laughs drily.  
  


“Like I said, they all suspect what’s going on here, Tess. They have for a while now. And, almost all of them have already been asked about our relationship status in a public setting. No one is going to mind helping us protect our privacy.”  
  


She can’t think of anything to say to this, so another loaded silence falls between them.  
  


“What are you so afraid of?” He doesn’t sound angry or unkind at this point. He just sounds exhausted with the effort of trying to understand.  
  


_So many things,_ she thinks wearily. _Too many to count.  
  
_

But, she doesn’t say what’s in her head. Instead, she makes herself smile and hold his eyes steadily, confidently.  
  


“I just don’t want to rush, Scott. That’s all. We’re worth doing this right. And, we have plenty of time.”  
  


When he doesn’t reply, she slides off her float and kicks over to his, pushing down the end by his legs, and climbing up, so that they sit face to face, her calves wrapping around his.  
  


“I want to enjoy every single phase of the new us…and we just started this one, you know?”  
  


Sliding one hand into his hair, she leans forward and kisses him, softly at first and then more urgently, moving to balance her hands on the tops of his thighs, her fingers pressing into the ridges of his quads.  
  


Her fingers begin to gently knead into his muscles, moving slowly up as she kisses his neck. He makes a little sound at the back of his throat as she captures his lower lip between hers and sucks, one hand dipping into the waistband of his swimsuit.  
  


Pushing his trunks down in the front, she runs a thumb over the crown of him before sliding her hand down his length a few times. The sticky wetness seeping from him creates a slick trail down the inside of her palm and wrist.  
  


“You’re so hard,” she murmurs, feeling a low, hot swooping sensation deep in her belly. “I want to kiss you there.”  
  


This is not her favorite part of their sex life, strictly speaking. But today, after the conversation they’ve just had, all she can think about it making him feel good. Erasing that flat, disappointed look in his eyes.  
  


As she bends down to take him in her mouth, he grips her shoulder, his fingers flexing up slightly. Her head hovers over his lap for a moment, until dimly, she realizes he’s stopping her.  
  


“We’re out in the open, Tessa.” There’s a hollow edge to his voice. “This isn’t a good idea.”  
  


She’s not sure what feels shittier, the fact that he's used her full name or the way he sounds when he says it.  
  


The red-hot embarrassment of rejection washes over her, and she jerks back from him, her eyes stinging.  
  


“I’m going to go back to the house,” he mutters, tugging his swimsuit back up his hips and sliding off the float into the water. “It’s almost time to start dinner.”  
  


He doesn’t look back as he swims to shore and disappears inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry? It will get better? Please come back?
> 
> Take a minute to yell at me in the comments, if you've got a minute. Love talking to y'all!


	11. The next step is always the hardest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birthday gifts. The Thank You tour. And a couple steps forward and one giant step back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few chapters ago, I joked that no one is trying to read a 6,000-word chapter.
> 
> AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
> 
> A few of you have reassured me in your comments that you'd be happy to read a chapter that long. I, uh...hope you meant that. 
> 
> I will say this, though, I wrote this ginormous thing really quickly, all things considered. (And by "all things" I mean a full-time job being a boss lady, motherhood, a kid recovering from a tonsillectomy and a husband navigating a new job.) So, I'm pretty proud of this chapter, for a lot of different reasons.
> 
> A couple of notes: First, don't read this at work. Second, Pierre Simard is back. Re-visit chapter seven if you don't remember him and his douchey shorts. 
> 
> I hope you like this latest installment as much as I do. Even if you don't, please come chat with me in the comments. Talking with y'all is my favorite.

_London, Ontario/Toronto, Ontario – September 2018 (The day before Scott’s birthday)_  
  


“What do you want me to wear, Tess?”  


 Three of his button-up shirts are strewn across Tessa’s bed for her consideration, the tags still on a light blue one she recently bought for him for the upcoming press tour.  


“Wear the new one,” she calls from the bathroom. “As long as you brought your super dark jeans?”  


“When’s the last time I disobeyed a direct wardrobe order?” She had texted him explicit instructions on what clothes to bring for their date night to celebrate his birthday.  


“Actually, don’t answer that,” he adds hastily, removing the tag from the shirt and slipping it on. “I forgot about the Canadian Tuxedo Incident of 2013.”  


“I wish I could say the same.” Her voice shakes with laughter. “But the memory of those acid-washed jeans lives on.”  


“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, snagging his wallet out of his discarded sweat pants and looking around for his cell phone. “So, are you going to give me any hints about where we’re going or what we’re doing?”  


Somewhere around Tessa’s birthday last year, they’d mutually agreed to change their “no gifts” stance (much to their mothers’ joint relief). The only rule? Their gifts can’t be objects, but instead have to be experiences. For her birthday this year, they’d been in Vancouver for Stars on Ice, so he’d arranged for a private tour of a small local family winery Tessa loved, along with candlelit dinner onsite.  


Tonight for his early birthday celebration, all he knows is they’re driving to Toronto and staying in the city. But he has no idea what they’re going to do there – he’d just packed the clothes she’d picked out and arrived on her doorstep at the appointed time.  


As he drops down to look under her bed for his wayward phone, a pair of blue suede high-heeled ankle boots walk into his view.  


Slowly, his eyes travel up the smooth, muscular legs, taking in the short dark gray dress that slouches off her shoulder, exposing the delicate ridge of her freckled collarbone.  


She gives him a half-smile, the way she always does when he’s unabashedly eye-fucking her.  


“No more hints. And we need to head out if we’re going to check into the hotel first.”  


“Maybe we should just stay here and I can find different things in the kitchen to eat off your body,” he says seriously, reaching forward to run his hand up the inside of her calf, stopping to stroke the tender skin behind her knee. “That for sure would qualify as an experience that makes the birthday boy happy.”  


Covering his wandering hand with hers, she tugs him to his feet, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her breath tickles the shell of his ear, and he shivers involuntarily.  


“How do you know that’s not on the itinerary for later? Look at that bag in the corner.” His eyes dart to a second tote leaning against Tessa’s normal overnight bag. “How many fun things for us to play with do you think I was able to fit in there?”  


His brain fills with the sound of white noise, broken only by the names of different sex toys being shouted randomly in all caps.  


She sucks his earlobe into her mouth and nips him gently, dragging one finger down the seam of his jeans before giving him one firm squeeze there.  


His groan sounds kind of like a wheeze.  


“I’ll meet you down at the car,” she says airily, turning abruptly and heading back to the bathroom. “Just need to grab my makeup bag.”  


“Mean-ass woman,” he mutters under his breath, grabbing her bags to take downstairs.  


“You love me,” she calls back sweetly. “So much, Moir. Remember that.”  


**********************************  


After they fight traffic all the way to Toronto, they barely have time to check into the hotel before they need to leave for their mysterious destination.  


As they slide into a cab, Scott is surprised when Tessa asks the driver to take them to Richmond Station, the name of a hot restaurant they’ve been dying to try.  


It’s not that he’s not happy with this development – he’d be happy doing anything with her – it’s just he got the impression she had something really out of the ordinary planned?  


Hmm.  


He sees her glance sideways at him a few times in the cab, a smirk playing at her lips. Her face is classic Tessa Virtue – the cat who got the canary but who’s somehow convinced no one is the wiser.  


When they walk through the front door to the hostess stand, though, he’s in for the real surprise.  


“Ok,” she breathes, her eyes bright with excitement. “Don’t freak out, but I’m going to leave now.”  


He stares at her blankly, as she puts her hand on his shoulder and moves him out of the way slightly so the couple behind them can check in.  


“What do you mean you’re going to leave?”  


“Trust me,” she says in a low voice, reaching out and squeezing his hand once before letting go. “You want me to leave. It’s going to work much better this way.”  


“I never want you to leave,” he answers automatically, becoming more confused and almost irritated by the minute. “Are you worried about being seen with me for my birthday or something?”  


He doesn’t mean for it to come out all prickly and pointed, but it does, and he wants to punch himself when he sees a flash of hurt cross her face.  


“Fuck, I’m sor--” he starts to say, angry at himself for making her upset.  


“No, don’t apologize,” she interrupts quietly, rearranging her pained expression so quickly that Scott would have missed it if his eyes hadn’t been trained on hers. “I know this is weird, but you have to trust me. Will you do that?”  


Smiling impishly, she touches his face, brushing the laugh lines at the corner of his eye tenderly with her thumb, before kissing his cheek, her lips soft and warm.  


He waits for her eyes to dart side to side, for her shoulders to tense – for her body to inevitably betray the fear she always shows when one of them shows affection in public.  


But, none of that happens.  


Instead, she leans back in and puts her mouth right next to his ear.  


“Your table is in the private room in the back left corner,” she murmurs. “I’ll meet you back at the hotel afterwards, ok?”  


“Ok,” he repeats to her retreating back, as she skirts out the door and into the night.  


**********************************  
  
As his key card slips into the hotel door reader, his mind is still buzzing with happiness and adrenaline from one of the best dinners he’s had – ever.    


She’s sitting on the bed cross-legged, wearing his old Leafs t-shirt, a sliver of black lacy boy panties visible between her legs under the magazine spread across her lap. At the sound of the door opening, she looks up, her face lit up like a Christmas tree.  


He launches himself at her, flattening her to the bed, his hands pinning her arms slightly above her head. She lets out a grunt of surprise before starting to laugh.  


“Good, yeah?”  


“Are you kidding me, Tessa Jane McCormick Virtue?” he asks conversationally, their faces three inches apart. “John fucking Tavares? I damn near wet my pants.”  


In early July, the Leafs signed maybe the best free agent in the NHL – and hometown Ontario boy – John Tavares. Scott had literally almost cried when he heard the news.  


For weeks after the signing, he had talked incessantly to anyone who would listen about wanting to meet John. He had considered reaching out to their old friend Mike Babcock, head coach of the Leafs, to see if he might be able to pull some strings…maybe get Scott into the locker room after a game or something similar this season.  


But a one-on-one dinner at one of Toronto’s best restaurants? In a private room where no one bothered either of them for autographs or conversation? Two hours of beer, fantastic food and non-stop hardcore hockey talk?  


Oh, and hearing John Fucking Tavares compliment his, Scott’s, skating skills? And then hearing him seriously ask for advice on drills to improve his balance and fluidity? AND THEN HEARING HIM CASUALLY MENTION HE BOTH FIGURE SKATED AND PLAYED HOCKEY FOR SIX YEARS AS A KID BECAUSE HE REALLY LOVED BOTH SPORTS?  


Unbelievable. Mind-blowingly amazing. So fucking cool.  


“How the hell did you pull it off?” he asks, peppering kisses all over her face, as she squirms and giggles underneath him.  


"You know how that agent from CAA has been sniffing around us since the Games?” Scott nods, continuing to cover her neck and collarbone with kisses.  


“Well, I ran into her a month or so ago at that National Ballet of Canada event, and she name dropped John and his move to Toronto because they represent him, and she remembered that you’re a Leafs fan,” she continues, moving her head to the side to allow him better access to her neck like a cat giving its owner the privilege of showing affection. “Anyway, I mentioned to her that you’d love to meet him, and everything just kind of fell into place from there.”  


She shrugs modestly. “I thought it was a pretty good idea for a birthday gift.”  


He stops mid-kiss, and leans back to look directly in her eyes.  


“It was an amazing birthday gift,” he says quietly. “Thank you. And you were right earlier. I love you. So much, Tess.”  


Scott could describe – in excruciating detail if pressed – all of Tessa’s different smiles. But the one he loves the most – the one he has always loved the most since they were kids – is the one she’s giving him right now. When she smiles so hard, so genuinely that her teeth are forced slightly apart, like a bubble of giddy laughter is floating delicately between the roof of her mouth and her tongue.  


Their lips meet in the middle, soft and sweet at first, before he begins to stroke in and out of her mouth chasing that bubble of sweet laughter, both of them moaning as their hands and lips begin to roam and clothes fly around the room.    


All at once, he rolls off her, sitting up on his knees between her parted legs.  


“Switch places with me,” he says, trying to memorize exactly how she looks in the lamplight right now – her hair a dark mass across the pillow, her lips swollen and pink. One of her knees lay haphazardly askew, her black lacy boy short panties riding up slightly on one side. Her nipples are dewy from his tongue.  


_Holy shit, I am the luckiest son of a bitch alive,_ he thinks reverently.  


“Anything for the birthday boy,” she says playfully, as they trade spots on the bed.  


When she swings one leg over his hip and starts to shimmy down his body toward his tented boxer shorts, he stills her.  


With a smirk, he pushes her up toward the headboard at the same time he scoots down slightly, stopping when her lower abdomen is right over his forehead.  


“Scott,” she breathes, trying to wriggle out of his hold. “I wanted to--”  


Her words are lost in the sound of his groan, as he pushes her panties down her thighs and pulls her hips down to his face. Swiping his tongue through her center, he begins to suck and lick the tiny bundle of nerves between her legs over and over again, until he can feel her inner thighs trembling against his cheeks.  


“Jesus, Scott…” Her hips are riding his face full-out now, moving in purposeful rhythm with his lips and tongue. “Please,” she whimpers, her fingers digging frantically through his hair as she speeds up.  


“Let go for me, Tess,” he says, never moving his mouth from her. Reaching up, he runs his pointer finger up and down the cleft of her ass, before dropping his finger lower and pushing gently inside.  


Hips bucking wildly, she grips the headboard and drops her head to look at him, watching him steadily as she rides out the moment.  


It’s like watching a flip-book cartoon of emotions, as all the words she still sometimes struggles to express aloud – her love, her trust, her desire – flick by in a continuous wordless sequence across her face.  


He keeps kissing her softly between her legs, until she starts to twitch and giggle, moving to curl into his side, her head tucked into the crook of his neck.  


“I feel like I just stole your birthday cake and blew out all the candles,” she says, nuzzling her nose into his cheek. “Do you forgive me?”  


“Forgive you?” He turns his head to consider her seriously. “As soon as I glimpsed John fucking Tavares tonight, I immediately created a list of ten new ways I’m going to make you come before check-out tomorrow morning.”  


Swiftly rolling her on top of him again, he lifts his face up to hers and gives her a quick peck.    


“Go get your bag of fun you taunted me with earlier,” he says, slapping her bare ass with the same intensity as if they’re warming up on competitive ice. “One down, nine to go.”  


*****************************************  


_Vancouver, British Columbia – Early October 2018_  
  


The night before the first Thank You Canada Tour show, Tessa, Scott, Patrick and Liz are sitting around the kitchen table at Patrick’s Vancouver apartment, making their way through a second bottle of wine after dinner.  


Scott’s hand is sprawled lazily on Tessa’s upper thigh, his left foot crossed over her right under the table.  


It still feels weird to be doing this openly in front of their friends, if she’s being honest. _Not bad weird,_ she thinks quickly, feeling disloyal somehow. _Just different. Unfamiliar._  
  


In the end, Scott was right. When they broke the news about their relationship to Patrick, Kaitlyn and the rest of the cast a few weeks ago at the end of a prep meeting, the general reaction was…anticlimactic.  


“One last thing to cover,” he’d said to the group, with the tone of someone about to announce a routine parking update. “I love Tessa. And not as platonic business partners or bandmates or whatever the hell else we’ve said. And I think I’ve almost convinced her to love me too.”  


Cue Kaitlyn who had stage whispered, “For fuck’s sake. Finally.”  


“We’re keeping it quiet though, because people on the internet can be real assholes. So please continue using your usual descriptions of us,” he’d added, winking at Kaitlyn in acknowledgment.  


Then, Patrick had started a slow clap, which everyone joined in on (much to Tessa’s complete and total mortification). And that was that.  


While she was relieved at this new development, Scott’s continued smug exasperation at how long they had waited to tell their friends – and really, at her hesitation in general – is irritating.  


_Let it go_ , she reminds herself resolutely. _It’s done. And you’re happy it’s done._  
  


The conversation in the kitchen continues on, covering their usual mix of topics – mainly skating gossip and old stories that get funnier the more wine they drink – when Scott suddenly changes the subject.  


“How is the skating school going?” he asks, pouring himself more wine and topping off Liz’s glass. “The news about the Drummond Club partnership is just fantastic – the renderings online are first-class. You’re going to be turning people away – students and teachers.”  


“From your mouth to God’s ear,” Patrick replies with a small smile. “But, yeah, it all seems to be coming together.” He leans back slightly in his chair and crosses his arms. “You know you have an open job offer, right? Both of you. If you decide to coach.” He hurries to add, “And if you decide to do that somewhere other than Montreal.”  


“I’d love to talk more about th--”Scott begins excitedly, at the same time Tessa says, “This is such an amazing offer, but I don’t know that we’re rea--”  


The table falls silent for a split second as the two of them stare at each other. Finally, they all laugh a bit awkwardly.  


“No pressure for an answer right now or anything like that,” Patrick reassures them, waving his hand in a vaguely embarrassed way. “I just wanted you both to know.”  


Tessa waits a moment for Scott to speak, but when she glances at him, he just sits there, his expression impassive.  


“Thanks, Chiddy,” Tessa says finally, her voice quiet. “We’re honored you’d want us.”  


As she tries to think of smooth conversational transition, Patrick saves the day.  


Sort of.  


“So, something else to throw at you, if a standing job offer wasn’t enough,” he says, grinning. “We were going to wait until the group dinner tomorrow night to tell everyone at once, but…”  


He trails off dramatically. “We’re getting married!”  


Tessa and Scott both yell out in delight, each standing to hug the couple on the other side, as Liz pulls the ring out of her pocket. Both rounding the table, Tessa gets to Liz first and wraps her arms around her.  


“Congrats, Liz,” she says, squeezing her friend gently. “Such exciting news! Have you set a date?”  


But, as Liz launches into a long answer about venues and openings and next spring versus summer, Tessa becomes distracted by the conversation happening on the other side of the table.  


“You’re killing this retirement thing, Chiddy. I’m so happy for you,” Scott says in a low voice, as Patrick chuckles. “I’m a little envious, honestly. I want to be where you are.”  


Tessa’s smile stiffens but she continues to nod and make affirmative noises to Liz, who’s still in free-flow on the challenges of choosing a date.  


“You’ll get there, man,” Patrick says, his voice equally low. “You will. Just be patient. You know nothing good ever comes from pushing her before she’s ready.”  


Even though her eyes are fixed forward, Tessa can feel both Scott and Patrick glance in her direction. Heat licks up the back of her neck, and she feels exposed, like some kind of animal in a zoo.   


She nods again at Liz, focusing hard on their conversation until she hears Patrick and Scott start discussing honeymoon locations. Eventually, she’s able to make her way to Patrick for a congratulatory hug, and all four of them retake their seats, as talk shifts to tomorrow’s show.  


An hour later, everyone agrees to turn in relatively early since they have to be out of the house by 7 a.m. the next morning.  


After washing her face and brushing her teeth, she climbs into the guest bed. Scott, who’s been watching hockey commentary, turns the TV off, leaving the room dark, and settles on his side facing her.   


“C’mere,” he says softly, pulling her into his chest, his palms sneaking inside her sleep tank and rubbing slow circles on her back. “You ok? You’ve been quiet for the last couple of hours.”  


“Yeah, I’m fine.” Her voice is muffled against his bare chest. She begins to kiss below the ridge of his collarbone, hoping to steer them away from talk of her mood.  


Unconvinced, he pulls back slightly, his eyes narrowed. “What’s bothering you, T?”  


“I’m fine,” she says again. “I’d be better if you’d let me keep kissing you.”  


“And, I’d be better if you shot me straight right now.” He rolls to his back and sits up, scooting back until he’s sitting against the headboard.  


_Alright,_ she thinks with grim resignation. _You want straight talk? You bet._  
  


“I guess it bothers me that you can’t seem to just enjoy where we are right now,” she says, still laying on her back, her eyes on the ceiling. “Like what we have just isn’t enough for you because we’re not engaged or…” Her voice dies as she struggles to marshal her thoughts. “Or because we don’t have every aspect of our post-skating life nailed down yet.”  


“So wanting to talk about – just talk, Tessa…not decide or act on – our future means I’m not enjoying where we are?” His voice is even, but she can hear the anger that sits just beneath. “Because that’s what most couples in serious relationships do. They talk about what’s next – and not next month. But, next year, the next ten years, the next 50 years. Especially couples who have known and cared about each other for as long as we have.”  


“First, no couples have history like our history,” she counters, keeping her tone neutral. “What we have is singular. And it’s precious. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure we don’t ruin it.” He opens his mouth to respond, but she barrels on.  


“Second, I think most healthy relationships are healthy in large part because they have the space to develop in their own time. When they’re not forced along before both people are ready just because, I don’t know, they’re a certain age or because their friends are getting married.” He rears back like she’s slapped him, but now that she’s started, she’s not stopping until she’s purged her frustration. “I don’t want to repeat the mistakes we’ve made with others in the past.”  


“You mean you don’t want to repeat my mistakes. Right?” His pretense of calm is now gone. “Say what you mean.”  


“Both of our mistakes.” She’s hanging onto her neutral tone by her fingernails. “But, yes. You’ve been known to rush things. To push relationships into high gear because you’re searching for something or scared or…”  


She doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. And, instinctively she also senses she’s gone too far.  


“You’re exactly right, Tess.” His words are ominously quiet. Flat. “But guess what I was searching for with Jess, with Cassandra, with Kaitlyn?”  


The silence between them thickens and freezes – like they’re on opposite sides of a dense slab of ice.  


“The ability to love someone the way I’ve always – always – loved you.” He draws in a breath. “You think I was scared? You’re right. I was. Guess what I was scared of?”  


She doesn’t answer, just closes her eyes against the burning sensation prickling at their corners.  


“Losing you. Having you. Needing you so fucking much.”  


“Scott – I’m sorry, ok?” Her voice cracks. “Let’s…let’s call a truce. I don’t want to fight wi--”  


“Why did your past relationships fail?” He doesn’t sound accusatory or combative. Just exhausted. Sad.  


Again, she doesn’t answer him, but not because she’s angry. No – she realizes she’s terrified of what he’s going to say next.  


But, he leaves the question unanswered.  


Down the hall, she hears the distinct sound of low murmured laughter drifting through the walls.  


“I’ve learned from my past mistakes, Tess,” he says finally, sliding down to lay on his side, facing away from her. There’s a note of despair in his voice she’s never heard before. “But I’m not sure you’ve learned from yours.”  


*******************************************  


_Kitchener, Ontario –_ _Late October 2018_  
  


It’s midnight, and Tessa and Scott are drunk skating at the Kitchener-Waterloo Skating Club.  


Well, not drunk-drunk skating (because that would be stupid and also an insurance liability). But, let’s say…tipsy skating.  


The show in Kitchener tonight was magic. All the tour stops so far have been amazing, but this one was different – it was special. Maybe because this city is special to them. And because it’s where they started to become something special.

 

Afterwards, they had dinner with Suzanne, their old coach, and over a couple of bottles of ridiculously expensive but delicious Sancerre, they’d told stories and laughed until Tessa’s sides hurt.  


When Suzanne loads them in the car to go back to the tour bus, they beg her to take them to their old rink to skate one last time instead. Initially, she balks…but she finally gives in, dropping them off with the rink keys and promising to pick them up in an hour on one condition – no lifts, since they’ve been drinking. (She’s never sounded more like their Suzanne of old than during this impromptu five-minute lecture.)  


And now, it’s just the two of them on the ice, arms brushing together as they stroke around the rink, which is completely silent except for the occasional kick of the ancient heating system.  


“I swore to myself that I’d remember to tell you every single night of this tour how happy I am to be doing this with you – what a brilliant idea of yours this was,” Tessa says, hooking their pinkies together momentarily. “Maybe your best idea yet, Moir.”  


He slides his arm around her lower back as they glide into a turn and squeezes slightly. “Love you, kiddo. I’m glad you’re having fun, because I’m having fun, too. It’s felt really good so far, right?”  


It had, which was something, considering the tour’s bumpy start.  


The morning of their first show – after a sleepless night in Patrick and Liz’s guest bed –  Tessa had gotten up before Scott and padded downstairs to make him coffee in the fancy espresso maker. When she’d returned, she’d set the cup by his side of bed and climbed back in, burrowing her nose between his shoulder blades.  


“If you agree, I want to go public about us when the tour is over,” she’d said, her lips touching his blanket-warmed skin. “I love you. And I want to plan a future with you. But I want to get through the next few months on the road before we start making major decisions. I want the privacy and space to make those decisions together – just the two of us.”  


He’d rolled over slowly and considered her thoughtfully, his eyes still soft and sleepy. “So, a proposal with a marching band and the entirety of our extended families at the finale show is a no for you?”  


Laughing at the look on her face, he’d pulled her into him, resting his chin on the top of her head.  


“I’m sorry about last night, Tess.” The vulnerability in his voice had made her stomach clench painfully.  


“Me too,” she’d whispered.  


With that, the taut wire of tension between them had finally slackened. And every day after seemed better, easier than the day before.  


“Want to see if I can hook my phone up to the speakers?” Scott asks, jerking her back into the present.  


“Nah.” She bumps his shoulder playfully. “I like the quiet. And I like talking to you.”  


“Which just randomly made me think about that Kristen girl,” she adds, starting to laugh. “Do you remember her? She was a singles skater here, I think. The one with the boobs and the long red hair? The one who was obsessed with you for a while?”  


“Boobs and red hair,” he repeats, eyes furrowed in concentration. “Yes…I think I managed to squeeze her boobs at some point, actually.”  


“Jesus,” she says, starting to laugh again. “Gross. Ok, anyway. The reason I thought about her…did I ever tell you about how she cornered me in the locker room one night and told me I talked to you too much? And that you’d never like me the way you liked her because she knew for a fact that you thought I was a little kid?”  


“What an asshole,” he says, laughing. “No, you never told me that.”  


Cutting his eyes at her, he smirks. “But you did talk a lot at that age. Not to anyone else, of course. But with me, you were non-stop words. Drove me nuts sometimes, but mostly, it just made me feel really proud. Like I knew that you trusted me.”  


“You were my only real friend here,” she says quietly, remembering how awful it was at times at that age – how lonely she was.  


“I think in one of our more horrible pre-Sochi counselling sessions, you called this rink the ‘birthplace of our co-dependency,” he says, and while he’s laughing slightly, there’s a hesitancy to his voice – almost a melancholy to his words.  


“I shouldn’t have said it like that. I was angry with you at the time.”  


“But, you think it’s true.” It’s not a question, but a statement. A “please tell me I’m wrong” statement.  


“I think,” she says, thoughtful, “that when we trained here, we were really young and alone. And, we needed each other so much. I more than you. And we learned to depend on the other person and lean on each other, which made our skating dynamic stronger…and made us better friends, too. But…there was definitely a cost. I think for a period of time, we probably were a little co-dependent, or at least I was. And I do think some of it traces back to here.”  


Pausing for a second, she links her arm through is. “I know this will shock you, but I still stress about and over-think our relationship more than I probably should.” He widens his eyes and makes a horribly fake surprised face. She slaps his arm, before continuing, “But one thing I don’t worry about is that. I don’t think we’re co-dependent now.”  


“Yeah?” he asks, and his voice is lighter and freer this time.  


“Yeah,” she answers, unhooking their arms and turning to skate backwards so she can look at him. “We’re quirky. And imperfect. And messy a lot of the time because of what we’ve been through together. But I wouldn’t change it.”  


He looks at her skeptically, his eyebrows doing the weird cartoon villain thing that’s always made her laugh.  


“I swear,” she says, raising her hand as if swearing an oath. “I really wouldn’t.”  


He seems to accept her answer, and they fall back into place, skating side-by-side.  


“I learned so much about you here.” His words are quiet, intimate. “How to anticipate your moods, how to pick out your smell in a lineup. Started watching for that weird thing you do with your mouth when you’re watching a movie – almost like you’re trying recite the lines with the character speaking. Discovered that you flip to the end of a book to make sure it’s gonna end ok before you start to read it.”  


“I don’t--,” she starts to protest.  


“The exception to that was the last Harry Potter book, but yes, you do, Tess,” he finishes firmly. “On the million road trips we took, I learned you think bumper stickers are the tackiest thing ever, but secretly love them if they’re legitimately funny. And you hum embarrassingly bad pop songs under your breath when you’re really nervous.”  


“So all the important things, basically,” she says seriously, and they both laugh.  


“I love knowing all the random stuff about you.” His fingers brush hers once and her heart stutters like they’re 14 and 16 years old, learning each other all over again in this old musty rink. “The random stuff is important stuff too.”  


***************************  
  
_Montreal – March 2019_  
  


Pierre Simard still dresses like an asshole. It’s early March and therefore cold as shit outside, so those stupid little rolled up shorts he had on last time have been replaced with a coat that looks like some kind of monk robe and a newsboy hat that he probably thinks makes him look distinguished.  


He’d be wrong about that.  


Scott watches him compare two butternut squashes, carefully inspecting each for imperfections. Having less than zero desire to talk to Pierre, he turns to put a few aisles between the two of them when he hears the Frenchman call his name.  


Shit.  


“I thought that was you,” Pierre says, smiling. “How are you? I don’t think we’ve seen each other since the B2Ten dinner, no?” He claps Scott on the shoulder. “Congratulations on everything last year. The medals were well deserved.”  


_Don’t be an asshole_ , Scott thinks resolutely. _Just keep it simple. Be polite._  
  


“Good to see you again,” he says in return, trying to sound sincere. “I’m doing well…thanks for the kind words. How’ve you been? Still teaching at McGill?”  


Pierre tilts his head slightly and gives him a funny look. “I taught my final class there at the end of the fall semester. I’m relocating to Vancouver in a few months to join a research team at the University of British Columbia and begin my doctorate.” He pauses and considers Scott carefully. “Tessa hasn’t mentioned this?”  


_The balls on this dude. Yes, Pierre. Tessa and I often sit around and discuss your academic and professional pursuits. The fuck?_  
  


Suddenly, Scott has a wild thought. Maybe the Frenchman doesn’t know he and Tessa are a thing? But that’s crazy. Everyone is Canada now knows Scott and Tessa are together. Their announcement at the end of the Thank You tour was widely covered. So unless ol’ Pierre has been living under a rock for the last three months, he knows.  


“No,” Scott says, his voice unnaturally even. “She hasn’t mentioned your move.” _Or you in general_ , he thinks smugly. “But, congrats on all of that. Really impressive. What will your research team be studying?” Not that he cares all that much. But it seems like the polite thing to ask.  


“I’ll be part of a multi-faceted research project studying Paralympic endurance athletes,” he answers, his eyes watching Scott’s closely, as if he suspects Scott is fucking with him about something. “The sports psychology team will collaborate with other UBC Masters and doctoral programs as part of the project as well.”  


He stares at Scott again, his expression still perplexed. “Tessa really hasn’t discussed this with you?”  


_Jesus Christ. This guy was the fucking limit._  
  


“Uh, no,” he says, and the façade of his formerly polite tone is now a distant memory. “Is there a reason why she would, Pierre? No offense, of course.”  


_Full offense meant, you arrogant twat._  
  


“Actually, yes,” Pierre says, scratching the back of his neck and looking slightly uncomfortable. “Because Tessa’s been accepted to do her Masters in Psychology at the Vancouver campus in the fall and join my research team.”  


Scott looks at him numbly, unable to formulate a single coherent sentence.  


“I, er, I thought you would know about this?” The Frenchman is full-on nervous now, and his accent grows thicker with each word. “I believe she applied in December? I talked with her about it earlier in the summer to try and convince her. UBC has arguably the top Masters and doctoral psychology programs in the country. It’s a terrific opportunity.”  


“Yeah, no – we’ve obviously talked about her interest in UBC,” Scott says quickly, trying to recover. He shoots for casual but doesn’t think it quite lands. “And, now that you mention your research project focus – that rings a bell.”  


Pierre’s eyebrows pull even closer together. It couldn’t be clearer that he’s not buying what Scott’s selling.  


“Anyway,” Scott continues, scrambling to come up with quick exit strategy so he can get the hell out of here. “There’s a lot to consider before then. It is good to see you, though, Pierre. Take care, ok?”  


And he spins on his heel and all but runs to the store’s automatic doors, leaving the confused and mildly concerned looking Frenchman still holding a butternut squash in the middle of the produce section.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me, ok? It's more fun that way. 
> 
> And, as always, thank you for reading. Love to each of you!


	12. Gotta be wrong before it's right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grad school secret explained. Drunk and honest Jordan Virtue. The only thing missing is Danny Moir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there, friends! This chapter was really fun and easy to write, although I felt periodically bummed while working on it because this little project is almost to an end. It's been such a blast writing this story and talking with y'all every week or two.
> 
> A couple of notes for you before you jump in:
> 
> 1\. Another almost 6,000-word chapter. *Shrugs* At this rate, the last chapter will be 10,000 words long. I can't worry about everything, right?  
> 2\. Go back and re-read chapter 11 before you tackle this one. It'll help.  
> 3\. Also, maybe re-read the last segment of chapter 3, too?  
> 4\. There is a dance studio in London named One Dance Centre, but beyond that, everything else I've written on this front is all creative license. 
> 
> Thanks for reading along over the past three months and sharing your thoughts with me! Love y'all for real. :)

_Montreal – March 2019_

Scott doesn’t really remember the drive home from the supermarket. It’s like he exited the automatic doors into the parking lot, blinked a couple of times and then all of a sudden, he’s wandering the rooms of Tessa’s condo, his brain both racing and blank at the same time.

Actually, this place isn’t Tessa’s condo anymore – it’s their condo. They’d decided to only renew one lease in Montreal, which he had believed was because they were still weighing their options on jobs, landing spot cities, etc. He’d also secretly believed they kept this lease because Montreal was their city. It was special – and if Scott was honest with himself, it’s where he thought they’d end up.

He’s no longer sure he believes any of this at all.

Tessa is in Toronto for a Hillberg & Berk promotional event and wouldn’t be back until the following evening. He’s both angry and relieved at this – angry because he wants to confront her right this minute about the bombshell that’s just been dropped but also relieved because he’s had enough therapy to know that if he could talk to her at this exact moment, he would – without fucking question – say things he’d regret.

He also refuses to have the conversation they now need to have over the phone, so calling her at all is out. The minute she hears his voice, the jig will be up. He’s never been able to hide his feelings very well in general – and not even a little bit with her.

As Scott makes another lap around the small kitchen, his eye catches the light glinting off his bottle of Seven Stars whiskey on top of the refrigerator.

 _Hello, old friend_ , he thinks grimly as he pours some into a glass. _It’s been a while since I abused you in the name of Tessa Virtue._

Rolling the rich amber liquid around in his mouth, he finishes the first two fingers alarmingly fast. After pouring himself another – this time adding ice – he collapses on the couch, surrendering to the loop of unanswered questions that repeat ad nauseam in his head.

_When did she decide to do a Masters in Psychology?_

_Has she applied for MBA programs too?_ (The last time they’d talked about her going back to school, this was the only option she’d mentioned.)

_Which other universities are her list?_

_When had she found time to study for and take the GRE? Had she also taken the GMAT?_

_Just how clueless and unobservant have I been over the past six months?_

The sad truth is – he stays preoccupied with these superficial questions because they are easy. They are questions to which contemplating answers only makes him feel irritated and wrong-footed. Like when they’re learning new choreography, and inevitably, he’s a beat behind Tessa for a while until they eventually fall into sync.

It’s the other questions lurking just below the surface that are the real problem. The ones to which contemplating the answers feels less like a frustration and more like a shiv between his fucking ribs.

_Why did she hide all of this from me?_

_Is there something going on with Pierre?_

_What kind of future does she really want?_

_And does she really want one with me?_

*********************************

The passage of time that evening is a lot like waking up from brief periods of anesthesia. Every time Scott looks at the time on his phone, a couple of hours have come and gone – the edges of the minutes gone by blurry and indistinct.

By 10 p.m., Tessa has called three times and texted twice. Then, his mother calls and texts, probably because Tessa had called her when she couldn’t reach him. He knows one or both of them will call Patch or Marie next if he doesn’t respond. Sighing, he texts his mom back and tells her he’s got a bad cold and has been asleep, and asks her to let Tessa know.

This move is almost certainly a tactical error because for the better part of 20 years, Alma Moir has cultivated bloodhound-like abilities to sniff out Tessa and Scott drama. And really, there’s no drama-free explanation for why he wouldn’t just text Tessa himself. 

He tries to give a shit about this, but finds he cannot.

By midnight, he’s on whiskey number five, sitting immobile on the couch, his running shoes still on. Tessa texts again to tell him goodnight, that she loves him and that she’s sorry he’s sick.

He tosses the phone backward into the kitchen with enough angry force to crack the screen when it slams into one of the cabinets.

Just before 2 a.m., even though he’s sufficiently hammered, he pours whiskey number six, and it works like some kind of liquid magic switch. The earlier embarrassment at the store and the resulting hurt, anxiety and just plain confusion recede all at once, giving way to white hot anger. It blankets his buzzing brain like butter spreading in a hot pan.

Stalking to their bedroom, he grabs his laptop and powers it on. Cursing fluently under his breath as it slowly loads, he finally types in the address for the Gmail home page with his pointer fingers because the rest of his fingers don’t want to work right.

When his email account automatically loads, he clicks ‘log out,’ staring at the now blank log-in screen. Even in his anger and drunkenness, he knows that what he wants to do next is wrong. So wrong. 

But so is lying to someone you say you love. For months.

The image of Pierre’s cocked head, as he looked at Scott with something close to pity burns without warning in his mind.

He types in her Gmail address and tries a password. And then another. On the third try, he guesses right.

His eyes immediately focus on the alphabetized folders in her inbox, and then find the one labeled “Grad School 2019.” Heart racing, he opens it.

**********************************

Their condo is abnormally quiet. This is Tessa’s first thought the next evening, as she drags her rolling suitcase through the front door. That, and it smells kind of weird – sort of dank and musty (which she identifies later as the smell of un-showered Scott and too much booze).

Tucking her bag in the corner of the living room, she walks toward their bedroom, deciding not to call out to him in case he’s sleeping off his head cold.

The head cold that has apparently prevented him from returning a single one of her calls or texts for nearly 24 hours.

Rounding the corner into their dark room, she swallows a scream when she nearly trips over something large on the floor. When she looks down, Scott’s sitting with his knees drawn up, his back against the end of the bed.

“Holy shit, Scott!” Her hand instinctively goes to her heart, as she gasps for air. “You scared me!”

Crouching down on her haunches, she looks at him closely, now worried he’s sicker than she anticipated. “Are you ok? Why are you down here on the floor in the dark?”

She reaches out to lay her hand on his forehead, checking for fever. But as her palm grazes his skin, he flinches away.

Startled by his reaction, she loses her balance and falls backward out of her crouch, landing gracelessly on her ass.

(Later, when she plays this scene over and over again in her head, she’ll realize that he never made a move to catch her at all. For the first time ever in her memory.)

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, bewildered. “Are you angr--”

“Guess who I ran into at Provigo yesterday?” His voice is expressionless. Cold.

She shrugs, and looks at him cautiously, aware now that he and this room smell like whiskey.

“Pierre Simard.”

 _Fuck_ , she thinks with awful dawning comprehension. _Shit. Fuck._

_I’ve waited too long._

It feels like the room is steadily filling with water, the weight of it pressing into her chest, rising up over her shoulders until it’s lapping at her mouth, threatening to drown her.

“Ok.” she says, trying to stay calm, forcing her voice to be low and soothing. “Ok, Scott. I get how this looks, but just let me ex-”

“Let you explain how you’ve repeatedly lied to me?” he asks evenly, his hands clenching and unclenching against his legs. “How you hid all of it – the tests, the applications, the acceptance letters, Pierre the douche twat, the campus visits, the CONVERSATIONS WITH Real estate agents all across fucking NORTH AMERICA – from me for months?”

“I was planning to talk to you about everything this weekend. I know that sounds ridiculous and suspicious and too convenient, but I promise, I swear to you--”

She stops abruptly. Her brain suddenly feels curiously quiet.

“How do you know about the real estate agents?” she asks blankly.

_Or the campus visits. And had he said acceptance letters plural? There’s only one way he would know that._

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at her defiantly, his eyes hard. They stare at each other in silence, and after a few seconds she could swear she sees a flicker of remorse cross his face.

Later, she’ll wonder if it was a trick of the light.

“I read all of it in your emails,” he says, and he sounds like a stranger. “I want to say I’m sorry. But, I don’t know that I really am. Didn’t really have a choice. It wasn’t like you were going to tell me. I mean, I guess you would have had to tell me eventually. You know…once you’d decided on the future you wanted for yourself.”

“You hacked into my email?” she asks hollowly. “What do you mean you didn’t have a…I can’t believe you would do that. I would never have believed you would ever do something like that.”

“Maybe you don’t really know me, just like I’m pretty damn sure I don’t really know you,” he replies coldly.

“What are you even talking about??? I did plan on telling you everything. Whether you want to believe that or not.” She can feel her heart beating in her ears. Scott Moir had spied on her. Hacked her fucking email. In what world were they now living? “Of course I was going to get your input on what we – WE, Scott – should do. But it’s clear that you think you know everything there is to know. Thanks to the invasion of my privacy and all.”

She picks herself up off the ground, thinking wildly about hotel rooms in the city and just putting space between them. “Obviously, you’re not interested in an explanation from me. And, I’m not sure I’m interested in giving you one anymore.”

And then Scott’s on his feet, and they’re a few feet apart, yelling at each other across the bed. Red-faced, expletive-laden, lose-your-shit yelling. Which hasn’t happened in a really long time.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” he shouts incredulously, jerking on the bedside lamp. “You lied! For months! Let me give you the rundown again, since apparently you didn’t hear me the first time.”

He holds up his hand in the air, ticking off her sins one at a time, using his fingers to number them. “You hid the fact that you were interested in a Masters in Psychology. Hid that you took the GRE and GMAT. You hid that you applied for programs in six different cities. You hid that you’ve been looking at houses and apartments across the country, including in cities you’ve never once mentioned wanting to live. You hid Pierre and his research project and God knows what else. What am I supposed to think? Do you know what this looks like?”  

“I didn’t lie, and I didn’t hide!” Her whole body shakes with rage as she points her finger in his direction, angrily jabbing to emphasize her next words. “I just hadn’t told you yet. I wanted to wait until--”

He laughs, and it’s an ugly sound. “That,” he says furiously, “is a distinction without a fucking difference.”

“You hacked – HACKED – into my email account,” she yells, ignoring his last sentence. “What the actual fuck, Scott? Who does that???  And for what? To learn something that I was already going to tell you tonight?”

She raises her finger and points at him again, her voice quivering slightly. “And, you can stop right now with the Pierre insinuations. That is just…that you would think I could ever…”

God, she hates crying.

“So you say now, which is pretty convenient timing, eh?” Scott has stopped yelling, and the bottom drops out of her stomach when she sees the wetness leaking out of the corners of his eyes. “Just for a second, think about how I felt when I run into a guy you haven’t mentioned in over a year, and he informs me you’re leaning towards joining him in Vancouver for some grad program you’ve never bothered to mention at all.”

He swipes angrily at his face with the heel of his hand. “He’s just standing there casually comparing butternut squashes, filling me in on what you – the love of my fucking life – is planning to do with hers.”

Tessa opens her mouth to speak, but he cuts her off.

“I believed you. I believed you last year at Chiddy’s. When you said that you wanted to plan a future with me. When you said that you just needed some time before we made major decisions. That you wanted to make those decisions together. Those were your exact words.”

He swallows thickly. “Can you say that you’ve honored them?”

She hasn’t. And, she knows it. And, he knows it.

“I haven’t made any decisions without you, Scott,” she says instead, pushing her fists against her eyes so hard that bright pops of orange appear behind her lids. “I would never do that. You know I want a future with you. Of course I--”

“You’ve made plenty of decisions.” His eyes are fixed on her, pinning her in place. “You made decisions to lie, to hide the truth. To cut me out of the discussion, which is the most important part of the whole damn process. Why?”

“I just…I wanted to see if I got in anywhere first.” Twisting the ring around her middle finger, she drops her gaze. “I didn’t want to worry about it – worry you about it – until it was actually an option.”

The silence between them grows heavier, as the half-truth she’s offering lays between them like a dead body, both of their eyes drawn to it.

“Try again, Tess,” he says quietly, and it’s the first time he’s said her name since she walked in the door.

She feels sick. Like she actually might vomit. “You want to make this into something it isn’t. My intention was just to wait until I had all of the viable options to share before talking about it with you. Which I was planning to do tonight except you--”

“No.” Scott doesn’t sound angry. Just sad. Unbearably sad.   

“No? What do you mean, no?” Her voice is reedy, thin. The water in the room is lapping at her mouth again. “Wait, what are you doing?”

Paralyzed, she watches him walk to the closet and emerge with a duffel bag, her lips moving soundlessly as he throws clothes and his phone charger inside. When he strides to the bathroom, the sound of the drawer with his toiletries slamming shut is like a gunshot in the quiet room.

“Please don’t leave,” she chokes out, following him into the living room, her eyes blurry with tears. “Please, Scott. Stay, and let’s figure this out.” Frantically, she grasps for straws in her mind. “We could…we could book an appointment to talk to someone. Just…talk this out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out,” he says calmly, lifting the strap of the duffel over his head and settling it across his chest. “We’ve both had enough therapy to know what’s going on here. You just don’t want to acknowledge it. It’s why you hid grad school from me. It’s why you still visibly twitch when the subject of coaching together or marriage or kids or buying a house together comes up.”

“I don’t…that’s not--” She shakes her head violently, her sentences tumbling out half formed.

“I think you love me, Tess,” he says, as he turns and opens the door. “But I think you love feeling in control more. I think you love all of the fear you hang on to more. Because both of those things make you feel safe. Keeps everything status quo, even if status quo isn’t really living. You’re still terrified this won’t work in the end and can’t face what that would mean. So, you let me in, but not all the way in. You want to move forward, but only on your terms.”

Stepping out into the dark, he holds the door open with his foot, his face partly in shadow from the dull porch light. “We’re living this kind of three quarters relationship, and I’m not built for that. I’m just not.”

“Please, Scott.” Her voice gets lost in the sound of their neighbor’s car locking sharply with a horn honk, footsteps growing louder in the breezeway.

“All you’ve wanted for the last year is more time,” he says, moving his foot from the door as he turns. His words filter through as it swings shut. “Well, now you’ve got all the time in the world.”

Tessa is still staring at the closed door half an hour later when she realizes she never said, ‘I’m sorry.’

*******************************

_Ilderton, Ontario – April 2019_

When the phone rings at 1 a.m., Scott is asleep on his couch, one arm completely numb from being wedged under his hip since he fell asleep an hour ago.

Flexing his fingers and rotating his wrist, he leans over and groggily reaches for the little square of light, bringing it close to his face to see who’s calling this late.

It takes a minute for his tired brain to process the name and photo on the screen.

_Jordan Virtue is Facetiming me?_

He hasn’t spoken to Tessa in four weeks. She’d emailed a week after that terrible night in Montreal (an ironic communication choice considering how everything went down) to tell him she was going home to London and that she wouldn’t return to the condo without letting him know first. He’d re-read her message so many times he could recite it word-for-word, and even spent two hours writing a lengthy response. But, in the end, he’d just sent two perfunctory sentences and then punished himself with a five-mile run. (It was that or get whiskey drunk, and he’s trying to be less of a failure at life.)

If Jordan is calling him this late, it’s nothing good. He hesitates, because he doesn’t want any part of a hammered (and likely angry) Jordan Virtue, but what if something’s happened to Tessa?

“Jordan?” He gets up and staggers to the standing lamp in the living room, switching it on.

On the screen, he can see a pair of black high heels clicking across a wood floor, and then the corner of a door clicking gently shut.

“You better wake the fuck up, Scott Moir,” Jordan says, the camera swinging up to her face. “This has gone on long enough.”

Despite her opening sentence, her expression and tone are neutral, even if her words slur slightly at the ends. He’s struck again by the uncomfortable fact that her eyes are precisely the same shape and color of Tessa’s.

_Shit._

“I’m not doing this in the middle of the night, Jo,” he says wearily, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Unless Tessa’s in the hospital or something, we can talk la--”

“Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p’ and shaking her head adamantly. “We’re talking now. You wanna know why? Because of this.”

He looks at the phone half-amused, half-concerned when the screen goes dark with a loud thud, followed by a hissed, “Son of a motherless goat!”

“Jordan?” He laughs in spite of himself. “Did you just say ‘son of a motherless goat?’”

“Sorry,” she mutters, the camera back on her face. Her eyes blink a beat too slow. “I dropped my cell. And I’m trying to swear less. Anyway, this is why you and I are about to talk.”

And then he’s looking at her shoes again and the bottom of a door as it swings silently open. His heart seizes at a sound he recognizes immediately – Tessa crying. Jordan’s camera swings once in the direction of the sound, landing momentarily on Tessa kneeling to the side of the toilet, her forehead on her folded arms, her hair thrown into a haphazard bun, which moves as her shoulders shake and heave. She’s wearing the gray dress she wore the night of his birthday.

The door clicks softly shut again.

“Jesus Christ, Jordan!” Scott feels as sick as Tessa looks. “Why are you calling me instead of helping her? And why didn’t you cut her off?”

“Oh, calm your tits, Scott.” Jordan’s eyes flash with anger, and again, he’s struck by how much the two sisters look alike. “Don’t you dare lecture me about caring enough to try and help her. I’ve been trying to help her all night. And for the last four weeks. She doesn’t want my – or anyone else’s – help.”

She sighs and then takes a deep steadying breath, making an obvious effort to diffuse the tension. “So, let’s start there, yeah? Because things aren’t going well.”

He doesn’t say anything, just stares into the phone, too preoccupied by the image of Tessa crumpled on the bathroom floor. For the past month, he’d imagined her carrying on with life with the same calm, unfazed precision she always had. Historically, when shit had gone sideways over the past 20 years – surgeries, break-ups, silver medals, relationship ups and downs, whatever – it was him who had acted out or fallen apart. Very, very rarely had it ever been Tessa.

“Pull the phone out a little,” Jordan says sharply, yanking him from his thoughts.

Without thinking, Scott does, assuming the light is bad on her end of the connection.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she continues conversationally, “but you look like ass. When’s the last time you had a full night’s sleep?”

Talking to Jordan is basically like talking to a female version of Danny, except with more fear involved.

“Is there a right way to take that?”

She rolls her eyes, but looks quickly to the left, shoving the phone face down on something dark and flat (Scott assumes a couch). Abruptly, her face comes back into view.

“Sorry,” she says, her voice quieter. “But, I thought I heard Tessa. If she manages to stumble in here, I’m going to hang up on you. And then we’re going to act like this conversation never happened. So, I’m going to say this fast, ok?”

He opens his mouth to say something, though he’s not sure what, when she bulldozes on.

“You both need to sit down and just talk to each other. The sooner the better. Even if it’s just to clear the air – even if you don’t solve anything necessarily.” Her eyes dart nervously off-screen again toward the bathroom. “I just…she’s not in a good place, Scott. What I just showed you has happened at least three times in the past two weeks…that I know of.”

Swallowing, he looks at his hands, avoiding Jordan’s gaze.

“She fucked up, Scott,” Jordan says quietly. “She knows it, and it’s eating her alive.”

Still, he stays silent, not sure how to respond. Of course he wants to see Tessa. He can’t remember a time – angry or otherwise – that he didn’t want to see Tessa.

But, it’s not that simple. And, as he keeps reminding himself, the definition of insanity is continuing to do the same thing time after time but expecting a different end result.

“Look, seeing her like that…that isn’t…it makes me feel like shit that’s she’s hurting, Jo,” he says finally, standing up and starting to pace around the room. “But, this isn’t just about hiding the grad school stuff. There’s a lot more to it than that.” 

“Yeah, I know,” she says. Her glassy eyes regard him steadily, even if the hand holding her phone wobbles a bit. “She’s talked to me about it a lot over the past month. It’s not like she wants to be scared, Scott. She told me a few nights ago that you accused her of loving the fear and control. I just…that’s completely stupid. If you’d had a front row seat to Tessa Virtue over the past four weeks, there’s no way you could say that with a straight face.”

“We both know she’s a control freak by nature,” she continues. “But, she’s terrified to lose you, so she’s working on it. Between you and me, though…I just want to point out that some of that control has saved your ass more than once over the years, but that’s a different discussion for another night.”

She covers her mouth with the back of her hand and burps delicately.

“And, you shouldn’t have read her emails. You know that, right? That was way out of line.”

Nodding once, he starts to tell her as much, when suddenly, the screen goes black.

He thinks maybe the call has been disconnected when he hears Jordan say softly, “I’ll bring you some water and your pjs, Tessie. Just go back to the bathroom, ok? I’ll clean everything up. Don’t worry, love.”

His throat constricts. Jordan isn’t by nature the most nurturing or mothering person. Tessa isn’t by nature someone who takes well to being nurtured or mothered…even by her own mother. The combination of these two facts and the gentle, genuinely worried way Jordan reassures her baby sister – it just wrecks him all over again.

_How the hell did we end up here?_

“I gotta go…I need to help her,” Jordan says, her voice low. Adjusting the camera, she stares directly into the screen, her eyes intent, her mouth a hard line. “I just wanted you to know how she’s doing. And to tell you to call her. I know you’re still a little bit afraid of me, Scott Moir. The moms and I are counting on that.”

“The moms have been discussing this?”

“Don’t be a dipshit,” she says dismissively, but with a tinge of affection.

“Right,” he sighs heavily, sitting back down on the couch. “Got it.”

*************************************

_London, Ontario – Two days later_

The main studio room at One Dance Centre is crowded for a Monday night. Tessa bends at the waist, twisting slightly to press her chest to her quad, feeling a satisfying burn as her muscles get warm.

Her ponytail swings forward, the end of it resting across her nose and mouth, and even though she knows it’s not possible, she could swear she smells vodka-scented vomit.

Friday night was a complete disaster. And the thing is – it hadn’t been some kind of kamikaze mission. (Nor had any of the other didn’t-end-well nights before it, she tells herself defensively.)

No, the aim on Friday night had been tipsy. She just…wasn’t a very experienced drunk. And she hadn’t eaten enough before her and Jordan had met up (she didn’t have much of an appetite these days in general).

After her second martini, she’d felt so deliciously numb, marveling once again at how all of the Scott-related thoughts just slid off the walls of her brain, unable to find sticking points. And, she’d wanted to keep it that way…so she kept reinforcing her buzz.

Until the bottom fell out and she was on the bathroom floor.

“Alright, who’s ready?”

Tessa’s favorite hip-hop instructor, Mike, a lean, muscular guy with an intricate tattoo sleeve down one arm, bounces on the balls of his feet at the front of the room, before pulling his shaggy hair up into a nubby man bun.

“We’re going to throw it back a little tonight,” he says, grinning slyly. “Cut it up to a banger from a couple of years ago. If you were a club rat like me back then, this was like, a motherfucking anthem. I’m going to show you the whole thing first, and then we’ll break it down into sections.”

As Mike walks to the sound system to plug in his iPhone, the back door of the studio opens.

At first, she thinks the guy in the backwards hat, sweat pants and fitted black t-shirt is just a Scott-lookalike or a mirage, both things that have happened countless times in restaurants, gas stations, grocery stores and everywhere else over the past month.

But, it’s neither a lookalike nor a mirage. It’s Scott. Who hasn’t come to this dance class since before their fight in Montreal.

Mike gives Scott the universal guy chin lift acknowledgement, which Scott returns and slides into place a few feet from her.

“Hey,” he says quietly, twisting at the waist gently to stretch his back and then shaking out his legs.

“Hey,” she murmurs back, glancing in his direction briefly, before moving her eyes back to the mirror.

In the reflection, she drinks him in, gorging herself on every nuance. His hair is longer, curling up a bit at the nape of his neck.

He looks tired. He looks leaner. He looks fucking beautiful.

Her throat starts to sting, and she’s momentarily panicked that she’s going to lose her composure, right here in the middle of a public hip-hop class.

“Is this ok?” he asks, glancing at her once, before taking off his hat and messing with the brim.

Her mouth opens in answer, but she’s drowned out by a familiar backbeat blasting through the speakers, so she just nods in the mirror at him and tries to smile.

She’s so caught up in not staring at Scott that it takes her a few beats to recognize the song they’ll be dancing to tonight.

 _He probably doesn’t remember_ , she thinks resolutely. _You’ve danced together in dozens of clubs since then. Don’t over-sentimentalize this._

But then he’s looking at her in the mirror, his lips curled into a half-smile as he mouths along with Drake.

_My team good we don’t really need a mascot_

In another life, she’s in a crowded club in Toronto, his warm lips on her ear rasping the same lyrics, as they grind against each other. The same club where he made her come with his fingers in the middle of a public patio.

Scott’s face comes back into focus in the mirror, and she flushes when he raises his eyebrows. She knows he’s remembering the exact same scenes.

Half of her wants to cry. The other half – the louder half – says fuck it.

So, she gives him a half-smile right back and shrugs as if to say, ‘What do you expect?’

Then, she winks. And they dance.  
  
  
**********************************

Although they’re not technically dancing together over the next hour, it’s like they are, as they fall into their normal pattern of looking at each other for choreography cues more often than the instructor.

On the class’ final run-through of the routine, Tessa allows herself to mostly watch Scott in the mirror as they dance, devouring all the loose edges of his movement, the filthy expression he makes as he mows through the last 16 counts. Instinctually, they’ve moved closer together than not, and she feels like his smell is being injected directly into her veins – soap, clean sweat and a waft of cinnamon gum.

 _I’ll never not want him_ , she thinks with the clarity that only a hard workout or an orgasm can induce. _I could never ever be just his friend again._

They pack up silently when the class ends, Scott grabbing her tote bag and slinging it on his shoulder after she extracts a long-sleeve t-shirt and slips it over her sweaty sports bra.

When they arrive at their parked cars in the lot (his truck is parked next to hers), he walks to her passenger door and waits while she unlocks it, placing her tote in the floorboard.

God, she’s nervous. Fresh sweat trickles down her back, even though the spring night is unseasonably cool.

“I never said ‘I’m sorry,’” she blurts out before she can stop herself, as he walks back toward her. “And, I am.” She clears her throat, willing herself to keep it together. “I’m so sorry – for all of it.”

An empty water bottle skitters toward them on a sudden gust of breeze, and the hollow sound of the plastic bouncing on concrete reverberates in her chest.

“I know, Tess,” he says quietly. “I know you are.” And then, “I’m sorry, too.”

Neither of them say anything for a few moments, as he reaches out and traps the empty bottle with his foot, dragging it toward him and then picking it up and tossing it into the bed of his truck.

“I want to try and fix everything that’s broken.” Her words are tantamount to lowering her beating heart onto a pyre and waiting for him to either light it on fire or not. “If that’s what you want.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, just takes off his hat and runs his fingers through his hair, before putting it back on.

“I still feel angry. And just…hurt,” he says finally, fixing his eyes on hers. “As much as I wish I didn’t, I do. I don’t want to lie to you.”

“No, I get it.” Her voice is thick. “It’s understandable.”

As the breeze picks up again, Tessa raises her face up to it slightly, opening her eyes wide willing the cold air to dry out the tears pooling there.

“Hey,” he says, reaching out tentatively to touch her arm, before running his thumb down the inside of her wrist to her palm. “I’m not saying no. I’m saying we need some more time…to start rebuilding trust and just…get over everything that’s happened.”

She nods and looks down at her shirt sleeve, picking at a loose thread.

“What do you want to do about Chiddy’s wedding next month?” she makes herself ask, still not quite meeting his eyes. “I called a couple of weeks ago and asked the resort about reserving an extra room, but they didn’t have one. I’m so sorry, Scott…maybe I should just stay--”

“Tess.”

She looks up at the sound of her name, and then he’s moving toward her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her face into his chest.

“We just need one room,” he says into her hair, which she’s fairly certain he’s smelling right now.

Then, he pulls away and squeezes her shoulders lightly. His eyes are trained on her mouth.

 _Please_ , she thinks desperately. _Do it. Please._

But, he doesn’t. Just gives her another half-smile, climbs into his truck and puts it into reverse, the empty water bottled clanking around in the bed as he drives away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we cool? You're not going to leave me when we're so close to the end, right? Please don't, ok? I'm so stoked to share the final chapter. 
> 
> Next up: Chiddy's wedding in Turks & Caicos...and I finally land this plane.


	13. All gas, no brakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end.”
> 
> \- John Lennon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I also thought I'd have this final chapter posted before now, too. 
> 
> If it helps in any way, you're getting two chapters for the price of one here. (Some of y'all are like, "What kind of piss poor consolation prize is a 12k word chapter, lady?")
> 
> Crazily enough, I'm ok with how long it is. I like all 12k words of this one. So...sorry, not sorry.
> 
> A couple of notes:
> 
> 1\. We start with a flashback to 2005. Just wanted to call that out so you weren't confused as all hell, if you were expecting to pick right back up in 2019.
> 
> 2\. If someone can accurately count the number of metaphors I managed to squeeze into this bad boy, I'll write an epilogue. What can I say? I like a metaphor.
> 
> To all of you: thank you. I continued writing this story after planning to only do two chapters because it was fun, and because I wanted to prove I could. I enjoyed writing as much as I did because of all of you. If I'm sad that this story is over, it's because of how much I've enjoyed talking with each of you over the past three months. Thank you again for making this such an amazing experience. 
> 
> To two Canadian ice dancers: Your story is incredible without fictional embellishment. I wish you both happiness...no matter how that looks in the end.

_Canton, Michigan – April 2005_  


“Today’s the day, Tess.” Scott is slouched in the passenger seat of his truck, one hand hanging lazily out of the half-open window, the cold wind pushing in as she drives down Cherry Hill Road. “About to make I-275 our bitch.”

Despite the chill in the truck cab, Tessa’s long sleeve t-shirt clings to her back under her fleece, which she should have ditched before letting Scott talk her into this pseudo suicide mission. Her fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly that she may or may not be giving herself early onset arthritis in her hands.

Over the past six months, she’s been practicing driving Scott’s truck on the quiet, uncrowded streets near their apartment complex. In an ideal world, this would be the entirety of her driving future – traveling known roads with predictable traffic rhythms at low to moderate speeds.

“I’m in my sweet spot,” she’d argued last weekend, as they’d yet again made the same 30-minute loop around town. “I’ve got time to do the freeway thing before my driving test.”

But really, time wasn’t on her side. Her 16th birthday (and the looming driving exam) were less than a month away, and she had yet to operate a motor vehicle above 50 miles per hour on a road without stoplights.

Initially, she’d practiced driving with Fedor, who had become her not-really boyfriend after they’d kissed late last year. But, this arrangement turned out to be problematic for a couple of reasons.

First, Fedor drove a tiny sports car, which Tessa knew with complete certainty he cared about far more than her, no matter how many times she let him round first base towards second. (He also regularly referred to his car as a “poon magnet” when he thought she was out of earshot. Hence his not-really boyfriend status.)

She couldn’t see out of the mirrors properly because the car was so small and low to the ground, and every time she changed lanes, tapped the brakes, basically breathed with slightly more force than a gnat’s fart, Fedor would grind his teeth. Or sigh like he was doing her mankind’s greatest, noblest favor.

Second, when he’d told everyone about their driving lessons in the middle of a group drill session, the angry, confused look that had flashed across Scott’s face sealed the deal – a change had to be made. When the session finished, she’d sidled up next to her disgruntled-but-trying-to-hide-it partner, giving him her best conspiratorial look.

“So, this is gonna be awkward,” she’d whispered, brushing his shoulder lightly with hers. “Because I have to fire Fedor.”

And, as it turns out, Scott is a pretty good teacher – mainly because he doesn’t act like he’s teaching her at all. It feels more like he’s practicing with her.

_And now we’re practicing cheating death together on a six-lane freeway at rush hour. This is so stupid. I am so stupid. He is so stupid. Every-fucking-thing is so stupid.  
_

“Should I get in the right lane?” she asks tersely, growing more and more annoyed with Mr. Laissez Faire, who’s checking out his new haircut in the visor mirror as he bobs his head to an Outkast song on the radio. “How close are we to the on-ramp?”

“You’re ok for right now,” he replies, his tone soothing as he turns down the music. “Don’t be nervous, yeah? Just remember what we talked about. The scariest part is merging on, but after that, you’re good.”

She doesn’t answer, just squeezes the wheel more tightly (if that’s possible), and tries not to think about the sweat stains that are undoubtedly blooming under her armpits.

“Tess.” His voice can best be described as gently exasperated. “That face is killing me. You look like I’m asking you to drive through machine gun fire. It’s going to be totally fine. This is part of life – you have to learn how to drive on the freeway. That isn’t, like, an optional skill.”

Still, she says nothing. Following the signs for I-275 North, she flips the turn signal, checks her mirrors and blind spot and changes lanes. One more light to go.

Her mouth feels as dry as the body of Christ at Communion.

“Alright,” Scott exhales, sitting up a bit straighter in his seat. “Look alive over there. We’ve got a couple of minutes or less and then the shitty part will be over. What are our keys to not dying?”

“Don’t freak out and stop.”

“For sure. What else?”

“Use my signal and side mirror.”

“Last one?”

“Pick up speed until I’ve merged into traffic.”

“If we do die today,” he says seriously, “I want you to know that I sincerely regret the time I replaced all of the toilet paper in your apartment with rolls of duct tape.”

“I sincerely still regret that, too,” she says in an equally serious voice.

Then, she’s crossing through the intersection, following an old minivan onto the on-ramp, which suddenly feels too damn short as cars whiz by at the speed of light on the freeway above.

 _And now comes the part where we die_ , she thinks with eerie calmness. _There’s no way I can get this truck going fast enough in time. I should have never, ever let him talk me into this.  
_

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” she chants as the truck steadily accelerates.

“All gas, no brakes, Tess.” His words are calm but firm. “It’s only scary because you haven’t done this before.”

Flicking her eyes between her side mirror and the taillights of the van in front of her, she hits the turn signal and resists the urge to pump the brakes. The speedometer arrow keeps moving right.

“Fuck yes!” Scott crows a moment later. He does ridiculous little Kung Fu punches with his arms, at which point she dimly registers that they’re safely on the freeway and moving with the flow of traffic, both of them alive and well.

“Jesus Christ,” she croaks, and it feels less like a profanity and more like a prayer.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Scott silently extend his fist in her direction, a grin spreading across his face.

Mouth turning up at the corners in spite of herself, she keeps her eyes squarely on the road as she takes one hand off the wheel and their fists bump.

********************

 _Providenciales Island, Turks and Caicos – May 2019_  


In the end, it might have been easier (and quicker) to list the things that actually went right on her way to Chiddy’s wedding than to list all of the shit that went wrong.

First, the 6:25 a.m. train to Toronto is delayed by an hour, leaving her with barely enough time to deal with the epic cluster that is the shuttle and the international terminal.

Then, after waiting more than hour on the runway because of bad weather, the flight hadn’t been in the air twenty minutes when she sets her laptop on her tray table, opening the lid at the exact same time the tall lumberjack hipster in the seat in front of her violently reclines his seat.

The result?

The ringing splintering noise of her screen cracking, followed by an embarrassed, lengthy apology that draws the attention of everyone in a four-row radius. Which then culminates in the hipster’s sudden and loud realization that the broken laptop belongs to Tessa of Tessa and Scott™.

Smiling weakly, she’s then obliged to sign autographs, snap selfies and answer well-intentioned questions for the next hour, before she finally slips on her headphones during a brief reprieve.

Finally, half an hour before they land…the crescendo.

As the plane is descending and she powers off her phone to preserve what little battery is left, she catches her and Scott’s whispered names from the seats directly behind her, clearly audible even though her now silent headphones are still on.

“…read online that they haven’t been photographed together in two months.”

“Really?” the second voice whispers anxiously. “God that would be tragic if they’ve broken up already.”

“What would be tragic,” counters the first voice, with a sniff, “is if she’s somehow idiotic enough to let a man like Scott Moir get away.”

 _No lies detected,_ she thinks dully, pulling the useless headphones off and stowing them in her bag. _None whatsoever._  

********************

When she and Scott cleared the air after that Monday night hip hop class almost a month ago, Tessa had hoped it would be the start of something.

And, it was – sort of.

They’d met up a few Monday nights since to dance, and while they didn’t talk much during or after, each time, he’d carried her bag to her car, wrapped his arms around her for an incredibly sexually frustrating hug and then wished her goodnight with a kiss on the cheek.

(This past Monday, the kiss had landed more on the corner of her bottom lip than her cheek, and it had taken every ounce of her willpower and self-esteem to stop from grabbing his face and mauling his mouth.)

In addition to meeting up for coffee twice, he’d also begun texting her several times a day over the last few weeks – to tell her a funny story about his nephew, share a photo of cat on a leash on their usual running trail, send her a video of the baby ice dancers at the Ilderton rink, etc.

And yet.

Despite all of this, she still has no idea where they stand. How he feels. What he wants to do going forward.

This weird no man’s land is already terrifying and stress-inducing to navigate in the privacy of London and Montreal – just the two of them. But, navigating it for two days straight in front friends, acquaintances and strangers alike, some of whom have likely read the gossip blogs lately?

 _Well_ , she thinks tiredly, as she drags her large rolling bag away from the resort’s check-in desk, her key card in hand, _at least we have significant experience hiding the true nature of our relationship. Even if what we’re hiding is now basically reversed._  


Without a doubt, it would have been a lot easier if they’d flown here together and had a chance to get on the same page a bit more. But, they’d booked separate flights well before everything went to hell because Scott wanted to arrive on the island with the rest of the wedding party last night, and she couldn’t leave until today because of a sponsor commitment.

As she follows the clerk’s instructions to the room, winding her way through white washed, lantern lit corridors, she powers her phone back on. Almost immediately, she sees a text from Scott, letting her know that he, Patrick and the other groomsmen are doing a guys’ night and not to wait up.

Honestly, she’s relieved she doesn’t have to see him right off the bat. Before she’s had a shower. And hopefully a glass of wine.

Holding the heavy door of their room open with her foot, she awkwardly yanks the large rolling bag in behind her. As she looks around the sprawling space, she once again ponders the protocol for sharing an enormous, sexy-as-hell four-poster bed with your childhood best friend/business partner/sort-of ex-boyfriend/only man you’ve ever loved.

Setting aside that loaded gun for the time being, she begins to unpack on autopilot, shoving clothes, bikinis, underwear and pajamas into the two empty drawers Scott has left her, before hanging up her dresses for the rehearsal dinner and wedding in the closet.

Finally, with a massive amount of anticipation, she strips out of her grimy clothes, and starts the water in the giant bathtub, more than ready to wash off the sweat and irritation of a nearly 12-hour travel day.

But, as one foot hovers over the hot water, Tessa’s eyes land on a small basket balanced on the bathroom vanity stool. Returning her foot to the ground, she leans over and scoots the stool and the basket towards her. Inside the basket is a copy of _Little Women_ , a box of chocolates from a local chocolatier and a bottle of French Bordeaux.  

Annoyed at the herd of over-caffeinated butterflies erupting in her stomach, she unfolds a note written on hotel stationery, which is tucked into the book cover.

_Saw this in town and thought you’d never read it? Also, if you give Tessa Virtue a book, then she’s probably going to want some wine and chocolate to go with it._

_Missed you, T._

Padding to the room’s kitchenette, she finds a wine opener and a glass and pours herself a healthy amount of Bordeaux. As she grabs the copy of _Little Women_ and a piece of chocolate, easing her tired body into the warm water, the stern lecture she’d been giving to her exploding ovaries dies with a whimper.

********************  
  
“Shiiiiiiiiiiit,” Scott breathes, his forehead landing on the outside of their hotel room with a soft thud.

His key card is gone. He sort of remembered feeling it in his back pocket a few hours ago…sometime between the second bar and…shiiiiiiiiit.  

“Tess,” he calls in a low voice, startled by the way her name echoes in the hallway.  

In his muddled brain, he’s convinced that knocking will wake up the whole floor. So, he waits to see if she’s heard him, his forehead still resting on the door. But, when a nasty case of the spins starts, he jerks his face upright and opens his eyes immediately.

“Tessa,” he calls again, a little louder this time. “I don’t have my key.”

A minute goes by.

 _Stupid-ass travel fan_ , he thinks blearily.

Because Tessa doesn’t sleep well in hotels, she travels with a small buzz fan, which she keeps plugged in right next to the bed to block out unwanted noise.

Noise like his voice saying her name through the door. When he’s about to piss down his leg.

The potted palm plant in the far corner of the hallway winks and waves at him.

“Locked out, handsome?”

Losing his balance slightly, he braces a hand on the door as he turns to see Taylor, a childhood friend of Liz’s, standing a few rooms down, one hip leaning against her door, the bottom of her long sundress draped over an arm.

Taylor has the hots for him. This isn’t an educated guess on his part. She straight up told him so a couple of hours ago, her mouth touching the shell of his ear on the crowded dance floor after the bridesmaids crashed the guys’ night out.

Her breath had felt sticky and annoying on his skin, like when he was a kid and Danny had given him a wet willy. He’d almost raised his arm to shoo her away like a circling insect, but caught himself just in time. She was Liz’s oldest friend, and he hadn't wanted to humiliate her.

“I bet you tell that to all the guys,” he’d half-shouted instead over a Beyoncé song, turning to leave the dance floor. “Quit flattering the other old married dude in the group.”

“You want to come in?” she asks now, walking toward him, her half-lidded eyes regarding him hungrily as the flickering wall lanterns throw muted shadows around the hallway. “I was dead serious earlier.”

She stops an arm’s length from him, and smirks. “And also, you’re not old. Or married.”

His brain feels heavy and cumbersome as he tries to formulate a hard ‘no’ that is both definitive but also guards against the awkwardness that will be tomorrow morning’s run-in at the breakfast buffet.

Just as he starts to speak, the door he’s leaning against opens, and he tumbles backwards, narrowly avoiding knocking Tessa to the ground.

“Fuck me,” he moans, rolling to his side, his hip throbbing. Eyes now at ground level, he watches Taylor’s bright pink toenails take a few tentative steps in the direction of his landing spot just inside the door.

“I’ll take it from here, thanks,” Tessa says a bit too loudly and a bit too sweetly. And then the door slams shut in Taylor’s face.

********************  
  
When Scott wakes up a few hours later, dawn is just starting to seep through the curtains. His neck is so stiff that he’d be surprised if he can turn his head, and his tongue feels mummified to the roof of his mouth.

A layer of goose bumps cover his bare chest and arms, which is in stark contrast to his hot and sweaty legs, which are sticking to his pajama pants. Apparently, Tessa had been afraid to put him under the covers, because he’s lying on top of the duvet, a trash can on the floor next to the bed and bottle of water and three ibuprofen on his nightstand.

Gingerly sitting up, he takes the pills and downs half the bottle of water at once.

“Are you alright?” Her voice is thick with sleep.

“Yeah,” he mutters, carefully swinging one leg at a time off the bed and pushing to a standing position. “I’ll be right back.”

Shutting the bathroom door, he pees sitting down (no way in hell he’s trying to aim right now) and then rinses his mouth with the complimentary mouthwash at the sink. The trip back to the bed feels like a ten-kilometer run on an incline.

Moaning softly, he turns to lay on his side facing her with his eyes squeezed shut, cursing the three divorcees at the last bar who’d insisted on buying tequila shots.

“Sorry you’re hurting,” she whispers, and he feels her warm fingers brush the hair off his forehead, her thumb dragging lightly down his nose and across his cheekbone.

“S’ok,” Scott mumbles. “Better now.”

Neither of them say anything for a few minutes, and he thinks she must have fallen back asleep when he hears her quiet voice.

“Will it hurt for you to turn on your other side?”

Slowly, he rolls over, dimly wondering if she’s trying to escape the overwhelming smell of tequila.

But then he feels her chest against his back, and her arm sneaks around to loosely drape over his side, her hand angling up to rest between his ribs.

It’s the most peaceful he’s felt in weeks (eight weeks to be exact), as the gentle drone of her buzz fan and the faraway sound of seagulls calling to one another lulls him toward sleep again.

Somewhere in that twilight, he feels her arm tighten slightly around him.

“Missed you, too,” she breathes into his back.

********************  
  
The toasts at the rehearsal dinner the next night go on for nearly two hours.  

Scott gives not one but two, since he had to refute Jeff Buttle’s toast, which included a “Behind the Music” version of the first time they got an underage Chiddy drunk at a hotel party.

Karen Chan looks completely unimpressed during both of these renditions of the same song.

When Tessa’s eyes land again on Patrick’s mother’s cut-a-bitch smile, her and Scott’s gazes lock, and the two of them hastily look away to keep from losing it again. His palm brushes her neck, before he lays his arm along the back of her chair, the outsides of their thighs pressed together. A cool breeze off the ocean wafts through the open-air restaurant, smelling deliciously of jasmine and salt water.

It’s been that kind of perfect night – a perfect day, really.

She’d slept in until almost 10, the two of them wrapped around each other in a way that made Tessa almost forget about the past two months. As she’d slipped on her bikini in the quiet room and tiptoed around the bed to dig out a cover-up, his arm had shot out from under the covers, fingers lightly gripping the soft spot behind her knee.

“Just leaving me here all alone with my bad decisions?” he’d rasped, sitting up on one elbow, his middle finger making small circles on her skin.

The only thing between them and total nakedness had been a minute amount of space, a tiny black bikini and Scott’s pajama pants.

“I’ll save you a chair on the beach,” she’d said, watching his eyes move slowly across her breasts, down her stomach, landing (and lingering) on her thighs.

Sure enough, an hour later, he’d slipped into the lounge chair next to her, and they’d sat in companionable silence for almost an hour, each reading a book to the sound of crashing waves.

It’d taken her a few minutes, but gradually, Tessa had become aware that Scott was only half paying attention to his paperback, his eyes straying to her more and more frequently.

“Spill it, Moir,” she’d said at last, cutting right to the chase and setting her book face down on her chair.

He’d swallowed, and turned to look out at the horizon for a few seconds before fixing his eyes on hers.

“I’m not angry anymore, Tess.” His hands had fidgeted like they always do when he’s nervous. “And I wish you knew how sorry I was about breaking your trust with the email thing. And for pushing you too hard over the past year.” His voice had trailed off as he looked down at his hands. “I guess I’m hoping you’re not angry anymore either.”

“I’m not.” Her throat had begun to get that telltale tight, burning feeling. “And…I’m just…I’m so sorry too. I know I’ve said that already, but I am.”

She’d wanted to say a lot more – knew she needed to say a lot more – but just then, she’d spotted Liz and her mom walking up the beach toward them. Scott had followed her gaze.

“Talk more later, ok?” He’d reached out to brush sand off her cheek with his thumb, his eyes tentative but hopeful.

At this mental image, she instinctively reaches for him under the banquet table, as Patrick and Liz thank everyone for coming and people begin hooting and whistling at Patrick’s mention of their honeymoon.  

“Want to swim when we get back?” he asks out of the corner of his mouth. From the way he’s leaning toward her, she understands that he intends the question only for her.

But in the most predictable turn of events ever, Jeff, who’s sitting on her other side, overhears Scott and whoops.

“Let’s do a night swim,” he says brightly to the bridal party table at large, a shit-eating smile on his face. The smile grows wider as person after person affirms they’re in.

“Fucking Buttle,” Scott mutters under his breath, his voice lost in the shuffle of scraping chairs and people saying their goodbyes. Tessa swallows a laugh.

As everyone files out of the restaurant, Jeff turns around to face them, sauntering backwards for a few steps. Then, he blows a kiss.

********************

Because it’s so late when they arrive back at the hotel, only seven people show up for the night swim. Seven people and one giant handle of coconut rum.

Scott moans in pain when Eric Radford produces it from the inside of a towel.

“Hair of the dog, Scott,” Eric says, as he pours generously into a line of red plastic glasses. “Don’t be such a shit Canadian.”

“You have a mixer, right?” Scott asks, his face turning slightly green. “And possibly a spare liver?”

Rolling his eyes, Eric extends his arm toward his fiancé, Luis, who hands him a liter of Coke.

When Tessa lets out a snort of laughter at Scott’s audible sigh of relief, he turns, lightning quick, and hoists her over his shoulder, her nose now resting against his bare back, her ass straight up in the air.

Without thinking, she opens her mouth and bites the tight, corded muscle, letting her tongue swipe and suck soothingly over the spot after a second. She grins when she hears Scott’s sharp intake of breath, feels his fingers dig into the back of her thigh.

Then, because she’s never claimed to be anything less than a petty asshole when it comes to Scott, she raises her face slightly toward Taylor, who’s looking at them, along with everyone else.

Their eyes meet for a moment, and Tessa’s grin grows wider.

_Hi bitch._

But, just as she’s congratulating herself on all fronts, he takes three quick steps toward the pool, slaps her hard on the ass once and then throws her into the deep end.

Sputtering as she pushes her head out of the water, she opens her mouth to yell just as he dives in, surfacing so close to her that their knees bump as they both tread in place.

He reaches out and swipes a thumb gently at the running mascara under one of her eyes, kicking hard with his legs to keep himself above the water. Dipping that hand back under to clean his fingers, he repeats the motion under her other eye.

“Now we’re even, yeah?” he asks quietly.

They’re so close now she can see the drops of water clinging to his eyelashes, smell the coconut on his breath.

 _KISS ME RIGHT NOW, SCOTT MOIR,_ she yells in her head. _RIGHT THE HELL NOW._

And then just like all of the thousands of times before that she could swear they’re sharing a brain, his face slowly moves closer to hers.

He stops with his mouth millimeters from hers. “This ok?”

“Do it or else,” she says.

********************

“Wanna know my latest obsession?” Jeff asks the group an hour and two drinks later, as they sit/float/stand in a sloppy semi-circle at the shallow end of the pool.

“No,” answers Eric, at the same time Scott says, “Only if it’s ridiculous.”

“It’s half ridiculous, half amazing.” Jeff addresses Scott, pointedly ignoring Eric. “One night a couple of weeks ago, I couldn’t sleep, so I started channel surfing and--”

“I feel like we’re 10 seconds away from something really awkward,” interrupts Scott. (“Exactly,” Eric mutters.)

“Shut the fuck up both of you,” Jeff answers in a dignified voice. “Anyway. Did you know competitive hide and seek is a thing? Because it is. Like, there’s an international tournament and everything. Anyway, I watched it until like 5 in the morning…and after that, I’ve started watching old competitions on YouTube. It’s addicting, I’m telling you.”

“Ok, I don’t think that’s ridiculous at all,” Tessa says, the last two words slurring ever so slightly together. “I bet that’s so fun to watch. And play.”

She turns to look at Scott. “Is this the appropriate time to tell everyone about how I’m the undefeated hide and seek champion of Ilderton?”

“You were good, Tess,” he admits, turning his cup bottoms up against his mouth and draining the last of his rum and coke. “But I don’t know about undefeated. That’s an aggressive claim.”

“I was so undefeated, Scott Moir, and you know it.” She’s distinctly irritated that he’s minimizing her clear and documented childhood dominance at hide and seek. “We used to play all the time in Scott’s neighborhood back in the day, because there were lots of mature trees and landscaping and just good places to hide. All the kids on the street would play…and no one ever tagged me out.”

She takes a lady-like sip of her drink. “I was always the smallest,” she says primly. “But I was always the best.”

“Prooooooooove it,” Jeff yells, and everyone laughs, but his face is serious. “No, really. Let’s divide up into teams and play. We’ll keep it to this general vicinity so we don’t get kicked out of the resort for waking everyone up, but let’s play.”

“I want to be on the team that hides,” Tessa says at once, standing up on the submerged bench she’s been sitting on and reaching for her towel.

“Team seekers,” Scott yells, almost simultaneously.

“And lo, natural order is restored throughout the land,” Eric intones to no one in particular.

********************

The teams are equally divided after Taylor claims to be too drunk to play.

“I’ll referee instead,” she’d said as she’d climbed out of the pool, casually palming one breast at a time to squeeze water from her bikini top, before wrapping a towel around herself.

(Tessa had desperately wanted to ask if she was manhandling the titty committee for the benefit of the three gay guys in the pool or for Scott. Just to watch her squirm. And to call her on her shit.)

(The high road is not the fun road.)

The hide and seek rules they all agree upon are simple. The hiders (Tessa, Luis and Jeff) have two minutes to pick a hiding spot, while the seekers (Scott, Eric and Lauren, Taylor’s friend who’s tagged along to the wedding as her plus-one) face in the opposite direction.

If a hider is discovered, but manages to make it back to home (the pool gate), they’re awarded ten points. If the hider is tagged out in pursuit, the seeker is awarded ten points. If a hider is undiscovered after 15 minutes, that’s five points to the hider. If a hider is tagged out less than one meter from their hiding spot, that’s five points to the seeker. The team with the most points wins. In case of a tie, they play again, but reverse roles.

As Taylor clicks start on the two-minute timer on her phone, Tessa leaves Luis and Jeff in the dust, sprinting towards a clump of open-air structures to the left of the pool. Peering inside one of the huts, she spots two large towel carts, easily large enough to hide one small person.

The first cart is full to the brim with towels, but when she leans over to determine whether they’re clean or dirty, the smell of chlorine, booze, sweat and sunscreen almost gags her. Tessa is competitive to a fault, but this option is hard and fast hell no.

Upon sniffing the second cart, however, she strikes hide and seek gold. These towels are freshly laundered, and towards the middle of the pile, still slightly warm from the dryer. For a split second, she feels guilty for climbing in with her still damp bathing suit…but winners win.

So, in she goes, and she’s just finished covering herself completely when Scott calls, “Ready or not!”

By Tessa’s estimation, five-ish minutes have gone by when she hears one pair of footsteps enter the hut. Her breaths become shallower.

The footsteps creep towards the first cart, and she hears the sound of towels being lifted out, followed by a muttered, “Fuck, that’s gross.”

It’s Scott.

She lays perfectly still, closing her eyes and focusing all her energy on staying immobile. With any luck, he’ll be so disgusted by the first cart of towels, he’ll assume the second is more of the same.

And then, just like she’d hoped, she hears the distinct sound of his footsteps retreating on the concrete floor.

She doesn’t move at first, instead trying to marshal her strategy. As she sees it, her best bet is to creep out of the hut and then make a dash for home so she can collect the full ten points, rather than hoping no one finds her for the easy five.

But, this is a risky approach. Scott could be close by, and although she’s quick and fit, he can still outrun her in an all-things-even foot race.

Carefully and quietly, she raises up onto her knees, wobbling slightly from the rum and the uneven mass of towels beneath her. The hut appears deserted, and the air outside is empty of footsteps and voices.

Making up her mind, she turns to the side, silently swinging one leg at a time over the cart.

So far, so good.

But as she pivots to make her exit, she’s stopped in her tracks.

Leaning with one hip against the doorway – and blocking her only viable exit – is Scott.

“Well shit,” she says, matter-of-factly.

“Hey Tess.” His smile is infuriatingly smug.

She edges sideways a couple of steps, angling her body toward the small open space between him and the extra-wide doorway. If she could just draw him more inside, it’s possible she could skirt around him.

“Did you just stand out there and wait to see if I’d climb out of the other cart?” she asks, stalling for time.

“Maybe.”

Even in the darkness of the hut, she can see he’s watching her just as closely as she’s watching him, both of them putting to good use two decades worth of an unhealthily astute understanding of the other’s body language.

“Wait,” she says after a moment, her heart sinking at a sudden realization. “What happens if we’re stuck in this standoff when time runs out? Do neither of us get any points?”

His eyebrows draw together, but he takes a step in her direction, almost without thinking, increasing her tiny window of escape.

“I think if neither of us--”

He’s cut off by the sound of two female voices moving along the back of the hut, which have now stopped outside of the one lone window.

“…they’re just like...such a sad clusterfuck. I heard she made him keep their relationship this dirty little secret for a whole year, and even now that they’re supposedly together, she won’t marry him. Won’t even let him talk about it. After 20 years. Can you imagine?”

It’s Taylor.

Tessa’s eyes are glued to Scott’s, and even though she desperately wants to look away or yell something expletive-ridden out of the small window, she doesn’t. She just stands there, frozen in place.

The second female voice, who must be her friend, Lauren, murmurs something unintelligible, to which Taylor snorts in response.

“No one cares that you’re not really playing this stupid game, Laur. I mean…the only reason I wanted to come hang out tonight was to eyefuck Scott.” She laughs, but then stops abruptly, drawing in a dramatic breath. “Oh my God…wait…have I not told you about what Jenna told me…you know, Jenna, my friend who’s doing her Master’s at UBC?”

Scott’s eyes feel like they’re drilling literal holes in hers. Yet still, neither of them move or make a sound.

“She has a friend of a friend who knows Tessa…he’s a doctoral candidate…Peter or Pierre or something. Anyway, apparently, he was the one who accidentally told Scott – in the middle of, like, a fucking supermarket – that Tessa had been accepted to grad school at UBC. He didn’t even seem to know she’d applied, from what this guy could tell.”

Lauren makes a sound of disbelief. Tessa watches Scott’s mouth form a hard, flat line.

“I know,” Taylor continues, huffily. “To be honest, I thought they might be on the rocks, not just because of that, but it sounds like she’s going to move to Vancouver for school. And, Liz mentioned Scott seems set on living between Montreal and his little hometown in the sticks. So...I mean…how is that going to work? Especially when they sound like they’re already dysfunctional as shit?”

The palpable, unbearable tension in the hut snaps.

“Hey Taylor,” Scott calls loudly, his voice deceptively even and friendly. “Please feel free to fuck right off.”

A ringing silence descends. Something big is fighting its way out of Tessa’s chest – at this point, whether it’s a laugh or a sob is hard to say.

His eyes still fixed on hers, he says, his voice low, “You’ve got a three-second head start, T. And then I’m tagging your ass out.”

They stare at each other for a second, and then he steps aside and smiles.

And she runs toward home.

********************

God, Scott loves weddings. Just like any guy who is both a self-admitted sap and an above-average dancer would.

His favorite thing about weddings?

Obviously, the reception. And not just because there’s usually booze. And dancing. (Those help, of course.) But, because he just loves watching people be joyous as hell.

 _It’s like Daniel Tosh said_ , he thinks, looking around at all of the laughing, smiling guests. _You don’t see people frowning on Wave Runners…or at kick-ass wedding receptions._  


Key to this, though, is good music. Really, his only groomsman duty (aside from helping Chiddy pick out the ring and just showing up with the correct suit) was to consult on the reception playlist.

And, he’s pretty sure they nailed it. Even Tessa, whose musical tastes are quite different than his (and by different, see: worse), had agreed it was a perfect mix of styles and tempos.

They’ve danced together some tonight, but as a rule, he is the dance floor fiend at parties like this, not her. She likes to dance, but hates that much of the time, people around them are more fixated on watching the professional dancers who luuuuurve each other dance than on actually dancing themselves. Just kind of kills the vibe for her.

But, as soon as he hears the telltale trumpets and piano of the last song of the night, he catches her eye, as she stands talking to a small knot of people, and she smiles and excuses herself, walking toward him.

“Those puppy dog eyes are like my bat signal,” she says, laughing, and reaching for his hand, as he leads her to the dance floor.

One hand resting between her shoulder blades, his other grasps hers in a loose dance hold as he pulls her closer, their heads touching.

After a minute or so, she begins to sing along quietly, her hair tickling his jaw.

 _You are the best thing._  
_You’re the best thing, baby._

Her sweet, slightly off-key voice transports him to the backseat of a million long car rides, the boards at another dank-smelling rink, quiet, dim hotel rooms in cities across the world. All of the places where – just with him – Tessa will let down her guard and sing.

_Baby_  
_We’ve come a long way_  
_And, baby_  
_You know I hope and I pray_  
_That you believe me_  
_When I say this love will never fade away_  
_Because you are the best thing_

“You’re my best thing,” he says into her neck, and he feels her face smile.

“Ditto, Scott Moir.” She buries her nose in the space beneath his ear. “Ditto.”

“And now,” he says, rearing back to look at her with his most serious face. “We show off like a couple of assholes.”

“You can’t help yourself,” she says, rolling her eyes, but laughing as he spins her out and back in, and the people around them turn to watch.

********************

“Chiddy and Liz have looked so happy this weekend, haven’t they?”

An hour after the reception ends, they’re reclined on two lounge chairs on the dark beach, both pairs of their shoes and his tie on the sand between them.

“They _are_ so happy,” Scott says, smiling as he rummages through the dainty little bag of wedding mints he took from the table. “They’re perfect for each other, and they’re legit best friends. About as ideal as it gets.”

 _Like us_ , he thinks silently. _Just like us._  


He digs until he finds two white mints in his stash (they’re the chocolate ones), and holds them out to her in his palm.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, and pops one in her mouth. He can feel her eyes on his face for a long moment, before she turns to look at the ocean.

“I feel like we just need to rip the conversational band aid off,” she says finally, laughing quietly. “We’re running out of time before this trip is over.”

She pops the other mint in her mouth and chews thoughtfully before continuing.

“I guess I had this whole fantasy about us being here in this gorgeous place, and…I don’t know, us sitting on the beach – just like we are now – and figuring out how to fix everything…how to make everything right.”

The silence that stretches between them isn’t heavy or painful, he thinks, turning to look at her profile in the moonlight. It just feels peaceful. Open.

“Do you want to go first?” he asks, still staring at her ridiculously pretty face. Sometimes, it’s startling just how beautiful of a woman she really is.

“I think I’d rather you go first.” She spins the ring on her middle ring around and around.

“OK,” he says, on an exhale. “Well, I guess I’ll start with the obvious, which is that a lot of what’s happened is completely my fault. Like I said yesterday, I pushed too hard. I couldn’t seem to figure out how to just be ok with where we were – where you needed us to be. Even if I didn’t understand or agree with how you felt, you have a right to your feelings, you know?”

He pauses, and then buries his face in his hands. “And the fucking email thing. God, I’m an awful person for that. I’m so sorry, Tess. I was just so angry with you. And hurt. But, there’s no excuse for what I did. It was invasive…and just, ugh…” His voice trails off. “Creepy,” he finishes disgustedly, speaking into his hands.

“You’ve never been creepy a day in your life,” she says at once. “Never, Scott. It’s true that I was going to tell you everything the weekend you ran into Pierre. But, I should never have hidden all of it in the first place. I made a series of really, really stupid, selfish decisions. I wish I could go back…because if I could, I would tell you all about each and every grad program. I’d weigh every pro and con with you. I hope you can forgive me.”

He reaches out to still her hands, which are still fiddling with her ring, and rubs his finger over the exposed raw sliver of skin there.

“Only if you forgive me, Tess.”

Both of them sit for a moment in the quiet, staring at their now intertwined hands.

“Can I ask about school?” His thumb begins rubbing slow, soothing circles on her skin.

“Yes,” she says, swallowing hard. “I want you to ask.”

“I feel like you’ve decided you want to go for sure, but where do you want to go?” he asks, sitting up and letting go of her hand momentarily to turn and face her, his feet in the sand.

Before she can answer, he rushes to add, “And that isn’t a loaded question, Tess. I just want to know what you really want.”

He grabs her hand again. “Not what you think I want or what you think your mom or anyone else wants. What _you_ really want.”

“I’ve narrowed it down to either UBC or McGill,” she answers softly. “I have two weeks to make a final decision if I want to get registered in time.”

Her eyes are fixed on a bird hopping a few feet away, its beak relentlessly digging in the sand for a morsel of someone’s forgotten lunch.

“And, in either case, I’m going to do an MBA,” she finishes. “I’m just not that passionate about working in psychology for the rest of my career.”

“I hope all the stupid shit I said about Pierre didn’t influence that in any way, Tess.” Guilt stabs at his gut for what a piece of shit he’s been to her. “Please also add that to the forgiveness list. I should never have insinuated anything about you and Pierre. I know you would never do that. That’s not who you are.”

“No, no,” she assures him, squeezing his hand tightly. “That had nothing to do with my decision, I promise. I want to get my MBA because, even though I don’t know exactly what I want to do yet, I know I’m interested in learning how to be a better entrepreneur. So, an MBA just makes the most sense.”

They both watch the bird now, which begins walking quickly, a small piece of lettuce clutched in its mouth, before taking flight.

“So, Montreal or Vancouver, huh?” he asks, smiling. “I’m so proud of you, Tess. Those are both such great programs.”

“Thanks,” she says, smiling back. Then, she pauses for a minute. “Will you tell me what you want, though? Do you want to stay in Montreal and coach full time?”

“I think so. Coaching there part-time has been amazing. I want to keep learning from Patch and Marie. I think it’s what’s best for me right now.” He watches her carefully, sees her nod once, her face unreadable.

“I’ve done a lot of thinking over the past two months, T,” he continues, lifting the back of her hand to his mouth for a quick kiss. “And, I think one of my biggest takeaways has been that I need to get better at living in the moment. Just…stop trying to think of everything in terms of the very longest play. It’s hard though, right? Because that’s how we lived for so long. We had to make these multi-year commitments to each other and to the sport. That was our life. And, I think I had a hard time adjusting with you on that front.”

She nods again, her throat working. “So, if you stay there long-term, what do we do about the Montreal condo…since the six-month lease is up soon?”

Licking her lips nervously, she looks down at both of their hands. From what little he can see of her face, she looks terrified to hear his answer.

“I think,” he begins carefully, “that neither of us ever really loved the location of that condo from the start. We picked it because it was close to the rink, and it offered a short-term, somewhat affordable rent. Agree?”

“Yeah,” she answers, just as carefully. “I agree.”

“Do you remember the very first townhouse we looked at in Old Montreal…the one with the cute blue door and the iron gate that you loved?”

She nods slowly, her eyes now glued to his face.

“Well, I found out a few weeks ago that it was unexpectedly available for a 3-month lease starting early next month. And, if everything works out, it could potentially turn into a rent-to-buy situation after that.”

They stare at each other, their hands still intertwined, palms sweating slightly as they grip one another.

“You should take it,” she says immediately, her eyes going wide. “Please tell me you signed the lease …because otherwise that house on that gorgeous street in that neighborhood will be gone in a blink.”

“I did sign it.” Pure, heady relief pours through him at her genuinely excited reaction. “I’m sorry, Tess. God, I wanted to call you and talk to you about it, but I was so afraid I’d be pushing you again…that you’d feel pressure to pick McGill and Montreal. You know I love you. And, you know I’d keep you under my armpit forever if I ruled the world. But, I don’t. And, I want your grad program decision to be dictated by what’s truly best for you…not what you think is best for us or me.”

_Even if what’s best for you makes me want to lay down and cry. Or get whiskey drunk. Or both._

“Don’t apologize,” she says, covering the space between them and wrapping her arms around him. “It’s an amazing house.”

“And I love you, too,” she adds quietly, her face pressed into his shoulder.

 _Choose Montreal,_ he says silently in his head, since he knows he can’t say the words aloud. _Choose the little house with the blue door that you loved. Choose me._

**********************

If Tessa was being completely honest, she’d expected this weekend to involve sex. It’s true that, going into the trip, she hadn’t been sure what kind of sex it would be. (Makeup sex? Angry sex? Confused but still horny sex?)

But, she’d thought there would be some.

Update: there hasn’t been any sex.

The first night, of course, Scott had been shitfaced drunk, and she’d been simultaneously worried about him choking on his own vomit in his sleep and annoyed as hell at that skank friend of Liz’s for propositioning her VERY PUBLIC, VERY OFFICIAL boyfriend in the hallway.

The second night, after the loaded moment in the towel hut, they’d silently undressed for bed – Scott waiting for Tessa to change in the bathroom before they’d switched places. Which was just bizarre on so many levels because they’d seen each other naked too many times to count. But, Tessa had been able to tell that’s what he wanted. Even after the kiss in the pool, he had lain a clear physical boundary with her, which she’d understood, even if it hurt.

Tonight, when they’d crawled into bed, she’d felt weirdly shy with him – too aware of his arms and legs in relation to hers, reading into every move he’d made (or had not made, as was more acutely the case).

They’d laid there for a few minutes, her foot wrapped around his, her calf resting on top of his shin, when he’d finally said into the dark quiet, “Can I be the big spoon?”

After wrapping his arms around her, he’d kissed the back of her neck gently, before leaning up on one elbow, turning her face in his hands and kissing her once, slowly and sweetly.

And, then he’d fallen asleep.

Tessa couldn’t quite believe it at first, when she’d heard his deep, even breathing. But, she’d shared a bed with him enough to know when he was really asleep, and he was, in fact, really asleep.

It had seemed impossible that she’d be able to fall asleep too, but somehow, she’d done it.

A couple of hours later, though, she isn’t asleep anymore.

Why? Because Scott Moir has hard-on, and it’s now pushing against her ass.

Gingerly, she tries to shift, just to give their bodies some room to breathe. But, his arm, which is still draped over her stomach, tightens almost painfully, and he mutters something that sounds like her name.

“Scott,” she whispers, reaching back to pat his hip. “I’m just going to--”

But, then the hand on her stomach eases under her tank top, climbing until warm fingertips rest just below the underside of one breast. Her breath catches when his hips begin to grind slow circles into her.

It feels so good. Better than good.

“Tess,” he says, and his voice is sleepy and sweet. “Can I just--”

“Yes.”

_For the love of all things holy and good, yes._

His warm, wet mouth sucks her earlobe, before working down her neck to the top of shoulder. Fingering the thin strap of her tank for a moment, he slides it down until one of her breasts is exposed, her nipple hardening in the cool air of the room.

He palms her bare breast gently, rolling her nipple between his fingers, as he leaves a bruising kiss on her neck.

“Yes,” she breathes, pushing her ass back into him, meeting his thrusts, which have begun to pick up pace.

 _Need to be naked_ , she thinks dazedly. _Too many clothes._

Sitting up, she turns to face him and lifts her arms straight up in request. He smiles, and pulls the flimsy shirt over her head.

Leaning in, he nuzzles and kisses each breast, before taking one nipple and then the other into his mouth and sucking her in that rhythmic, firm way that always makes her hips involuntarily move.

“C’mere,” he says after a minute or so, scooting backwards on the bed and pulling her along with him until he’s resting against the headboard.

They sit, her knees on either side of his hips, as he reaches up to push the hair out of her face. His palms cup the edges of her jaw, the tips of his fingers resting under her ears.

“I’ve missed you so much, T,” he murmurs, bringing her face down to his. And finally, his tongue pushes gently inside her mouth, stroking in and out in a way that makes her shiver with anticipation, sucking and nipping alternatively at her bottom and then her top lip every few strokes.

They kiss for what seems like hours, until even in the darkened room, she can clearly see how swollen and pink his mouth is. His eyes look black in the moonlight of the window, and his hair is messy and wild. There’s a solid hickey emerging just above his collar bone.

Irrationally, she suddenly wonders how many more hickeys Scott would let her give him. Two or three more in visible locations couldn’t hurt, right?

Tabling the idea for the moment, she rises to her knees and swings out her straddle, laying on her back next to him and lifting her hips to slide her shorts off.

“Get naked,” she pants, tossing her shorts off the other side of the bed.

He laughs quietly, and moves over her, until his forearms are on either side of her head, the damp crotch of his pajama pants dragging teasingly up and down her center.

“Scott.”

Frustrated, she takes matters into her own hands (quite literally) by pushing the waistband of his pants down his hips. When they get stuck halfway, she tries pushing them down forcibly with her feet.

Chuckling again, he takes mercy on her and finishes pulling his pants all the way off, never leaving his position on top of her. Once they’re skin to skin, he begins to rub against her, the crinkly hairs at his base creating enough delicious friction against her sensitive slit that she lets out a desperate whimper.

“I want to make sure you’re ready,” he croaks, reaching down and circling her nub a few times, before gently pushing one finger inside.

“If I get any more ready,” she says through gritted teeth, “we’re going to need those plastic bed wetter sheets that your nephew uses.”

He’s laughing as he pushes inside her – his expression so happy, so completely alive that she realizes – with rising horror – that she’s now going to ugly cry.

You know…just to fully cock-block herself right out of the gate with her stupid, overwhelming emotions.

When he sees the tears running sideways into her hair, he stops moving, balancing on one arm, so the other hand can wipe her face.

“Tess?” he asks, his voice tight with confusion and anxiety. “Did I hurt you? What’s wrong?”

He starts to pull out, but she grabs his hips hard and holds him place.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she says, her voice clogged with tears. “Other than the fact that life was so shitty and awful without you the last two months. So, please don’t stop right now, ok? Please stay right here.”

Without breaking their connection, he leans over to the nightstand, and pulls a tissue from the box there. He wipes her cheeks first, and then runs the tissue lightly along the tear-dampened hairline behind her ears.

She lets out a choked laugh when he covers her nose with it and pinches her nostrils like a mother does for a toddler, before wiping away the excess snot.

Leaning slightly to throw the tissue off the bed, he re-centers over her, lifting and wrapping her right leg around his hip. Then, he pushes into her until he bottoms out, their hip bones jutting together. When he begins to move inside her, he cradles the back of her head with one hand so sweetly that it makes her want to start crying all over again.

“I’ll stay right here, Tess,” he says, his thumb stroking behind her ear. “I’ll always be right here.”

**********************

When his alarm goes off just a few hours later, it feels like a rabbit punch to the nuts. It had been one of those nights where it was best to avert your eyes from any time-keeping device at all costs. Guessing that you’re only going to get two hours of sleep is somehow infinitely more bearable than knowing it for sure.

Not that he had any regrets about what had kept him up.

None whatsoever, actually.

As quietly as possible, he slides out of bed and finds his last pair of clean shorts and a skate shop t-shirt, silently chuckling at a sleeping Tessa, who’s sprawled out on her stomach like a starfish.

Truthfully, while he needles her endlessly about what a bed-hog she is, if it meant sharing her bed most nights, he’d gladly let her starfish herself into 98.7 percent of the total bed width.

She’s usually a light sleeper, so he expects that, at some point during his albeit very quiet packing session, she’ll wake up. But, she doesn’t. Her breathing is even and steady, mouth slightly parted with a tiny drop of drool at the corner.

For maybe the 20th time this weekend, he starts second guessing himself again, as he stands there in the doorway to the bathroom watching her sleep.

He’d meant what he said about wanting her to make her own decision on grad school. But, he also hopes that she knows how much he wants her in Montreal with him. That’s the crazy, seemingly impossible balance he’s tried to strike this weekend – trying to show her that she’s loved and wanted, while at the same time assuring her that, if Vancouver is where she needs to be, then he’s going to support her.

Had he expressed all of that clearly enough?

What her choosing Vancouver would mean for their relationship, though? He has no idea. They’ve never been in a committed romantic relationship with one another before a year ago, and this year has been one of so many ups and downs, of almost continual change and adjustment. On top of that, they’ve never done long-distance for months at a time – even as friends.

A Tessa who lives across the country full-time is a terrifying thing to contemplate.

He holds his breath when she suddenly sighs once and rolls to her side facing him, her mouth still slightly open and her hair spilling across her pillow. Although her hair is darker now, in this light, with her bare face and freckles, she looks 16 again.

The year she’d learned to drive his truck, he thinks out of nowhere.

God, she’d been terrified of driving. For months, they’d putted around the ‘burbs, him trying to stay patient with her refusal to drive anywhere that required the speedometer to exceed 40 miles per hour.

When she’d finally conquered the freeway, cussing the entire way up the on-ramp, she’d been so radiantly happy. He could still picture the exact look on her face, as he’d yelled his head off in excitement in the passenger seat.

Tessa had always done things in her own way, on her own time. He’d been quite the moron at 17, and he knew without a doubt he hadn’t always been good to her. But one thing he’d for sure gotten right were those driving lessons.

He’d let her lead. He’d let her set the pace. He’d supported her. And, when he’d known she was ready, he’d helped her take the leap.

Maybe 17-year-old Scott Moir wasn’t such a dumbass after all.

Creeping toward his suitcase, he finds the index card he’d packed back in Montreal inside his shaving bag, a small metal object taped to it. Spotting a pen on the room’s desk, he takes out his phone and painstakingly copies onto the card a series of letters and numbers from an email. Then, before he can second-guess himself another time, he flips it over and begins to write.

**********************

_London, Ontario -- May 2019_

Her return trip to Toronto is only slightly better than her trip to the island three days before.

Alright, fine. It’s possible that it’s been a much better trip…and that she’s just a tiny bit on edge.

This weekend had been a lot.

Last night had been a lot.

When Scott had left this morning for his early flight to Montreal, his lips brushing her forehead in their still-dark hotel room, waves of emptiness seemed to swallow her whole as the door had closed behind him.

Almost twelve hours later, as she climbs wearily into her car at the London train station, those same waves threaten to overwhelm her again.

Montreal or Vancouver.

After the long conversation on the beach with Scott, it’s crystal clear that the full weight of this decision has to be hers to bear alone. 

 _Two weeks,_ she tells herself, watching the sturdy, familiar landscape of her hometown pass out of her windshield. _Two weeks to figure out what comes next._

**********************

It’s not until almost midnight, when she’s doing her usual half-assed post-trip unpacking job that she finds it. 

Scott, who knows her every habit so well, especially her travel habits, would have known to put it in the inside pocket with her charger, which is the only thing besides her toiletry bag that she ever unpacks immediately.  

The plain white sealed envelope is slightly larger than a pack of cards, the letter ‘T’ scrawled on the front.

Carefully, she opens it and pulls out a small index card. Taped to the front of the card is a silver key – the kind billions of people use to lock and unlock their homes every day.

Below it, in Scott’s best all-caps handwriting, is an address. She recognizes the familiar street name in Old Montreal.

And, beneath the address, he’s drawn an arrow to the edge of the card.

Eyes already blurry with tears, she flips the card over and reads the message.

_T-_

_I got distracted watching you sleep this morning. (Don’t make that face. It was non-creepy watching.) You looked 16 years old again, I swear. And it made me think about the first time you drove my old truck on the freeway before your driving test. Do you remember what I said to you?_

_All gas, no brakes._

_You probably don’t remember that. But, I think maybe the reason I did is because I’m supposed to say it again now. Because you deserve to run full speed – all gas and no brakes – toward whatever your heart wants…whether it’s Vancouver or Montreal._

_Either way, though…you’re going to need this key._

_-S_

********************

_Montreal, Quebec -- June 2019_

Scott’s approach to carrying in groceries from the car is simple and straightforward: All or nothing.

There are no multiple trips. Literally, he’ll risk a bag ripping and shit flying everywhere before he’ll make multiple trips.

He hasn’t grocery shopped since getting back from Chiddy’s wedding almost a week ago, and with the weekend in front of him, he knows it’s beyond time. So, on his way back home from the rink, he’d stopped by the supermarket and stocked up.

 _At least I’m not carrying these up two flights of stairs anymore_ , he thinks, grimacing as a dozen bags hang precariously from his arms. _One more reason to love the new townhouse._

But when he slides his key into the door, he has a moment of misgiving.

The door is open. The door he could have sworn he locked on his way out this morning.

Cautiously and quietly, he turns the doorknob, nudging the door open with his knee just enough to see inside.

 _Everything looks the same_ , he thinks, relieved. _Nothing’s out of place._

It’s not until he’s over the threshold that he hears it – a sweet, slightly off-key voice singing a terrible pop song that Top 100 radio is calling the song of the summer, followed by the sound of a box cutter or scissors ripping through packing tape.

The grocery bags swing chaotically from his wrists as he stumbles to a halt. Then, he drops the groceries with a loud thump on the refinished wood floor, and the singing and tape-ripping abruptly stops.

In a matter of seconds, Tessa is standing in front of him, wearing her favorite yoga pants and an oversized Detroit Tigers t-shirt of his, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun.

“Hey,” she says, nervously running one hand over her hair. “I hope I didn’t startle you. I should have texted to tell you I was coming. I just--”

She must have been drinking red wine before he arrived because that’s what she tastes like when his mouth crashes into hers. Red wine and pure, unfiltered happiness.

The kiss seems to startle her for a moment because she makes a surprised noise at the back of her throat, before wrapping her arms around his neck and angling her face closer to his.

After a minute, though, she pulls back, her arms still holding him, and tries to speak.

“I need to tell--”

“Nope. More kissing.”

“Scott.” She’s laughing as he suckles at her bottom lip, her eyes closed. “Let me talk to you for a--”

“30 more seconds of kissing.”

He’d really like to ask for an hour. Or hours. Just indefinitely delay the possibility that the next thing out of her mouth isn’t what he thinks it might be. Hopes it will be.

He knows he shouldn’t, but sweet Christ, he’s reading a whole hell of a lot into her being here right now. Unannounced. A week after giving her a key. Wearing his shirt. Moving around this house and unpacking boxes like she belongs here.

 _She does belong here,_ he thinks fervently. _Please let her know that she belongs here._

Placing a palm on each of his cheeks, she smooshes his face until he’s puckered up, and gives him one more firm kiss. Then, she purposefully takes two steps back so there’s distance between them.

 _God, please,_ he pleads silently, his gut knotting and unknotting the way it does before they compete. _Please, please, please._  


“I’m sorry I didn’t text you,” she repeats again, her left hand moving automatically to her right as she begins twisting the ring on her middle finger. “I should have. I hope I’m not screwing up any plans tonight.”

“Stop apologizing. I’m so fucking happy you’re here.” It’s all he can manage because he just wants her to say whatever she came to say. Preferably before he pukes all over the groceries.

“First,” she starts, smiling a little shyly. “Thanks for the key. And the note.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, wishing he could feel his lips properly. “I meant all of it, Tess. I just want you to be happy.”

“I know.” She takes a step closer to him, her eyes getting glassier by the second, the right corner of her bottom lip twitching the way it does when she’s trying not to cry. “And, that’s why I wanted to come here and talk to you in person.”

Fuck.

He tries to keep his face pleasant and relaxed – tries to, quite literally, put his money where his mouth is and give her a real smile, even though it feels like he’s on the cusp of not genuinely smiling for a long, long time.

 _Get it the fuck together,_ he says angrily to himself. _No matter what she says next, you will make her feel supported. Because that’s what you said you’d do._

And so he waits for her to continue. The fraught silence feels an eon long.

“You were right…what you said on the beach. I do have two great options for grad programs…” she says finally, her voice faltering for a second as she wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. “But, in the end, it was an easy decision. Because there’s only one you.”

From the look on her face, it’s clear she expects him to say something meaningful in response right now. And, he wishes he could. Really, he does. But, a metric shit-ton of hope is now smothering the last of his remaining brain cells.

With a wobbly smile, she digs the key Scott left her out of her pocket and holds it up, wiping her face again on her other forearm.

Making a sound that’s halfway between a sob and a choke of laughter, she says, “What I mean is…can this be my real key and not a spare?”

He still can’t speak. Suffocation by hope and crying will do that to a guy.

Letting out another watery laugh, she steps toward him until their upper bodies are nearly touching, reaching up to wipe his face with her hands.

“No more spare keys?” she asks quietly, searching his eyes with hers.

And all at once, something clicks into place – something he’d never put together before now.

Every single time he’d ever heard the sound of a key turning the lock – be it in a hotel room, his apartment in Canton, his house in Ilderton, wherever – he’d been happy knowing it was her. No matter the state of their relationship – good, bad or somewhere in between.

He’d always wanted it to be her on the other side.

“They’ve never been spare keys when it comes to you, Tess,” he says, as he pulls her into a crushing hug, burying his wet face into her neck. “Not a single one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean...if you're not going to come chat with me now, when will you? So, do it...pretty please?
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading! Hugs to each and every one of you who stayed with me until the end. As my Scott would say, I love you a whole metric shit-ton. :)


End file.
